


The twenty-ninth shot

by randomnickname



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst and Humor, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Claustrophobia, Explicit Sexual Content, Foe Yay, M/M, Pain Kink, Post-Canon, Slow Burn, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2018-09-18 10:38:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 48,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9380741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomnickname/pseuds/randomnickname
Summary: After Arachnophobia’s fall, Giriko has lost everything: his immortality, his allies, his hopes - and his freedom. In the face of adversity the help of a certain annoying priest might be all he needs.Takes place right after episode 49 of the anime.





	1. Boom

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tastewithouttalent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/gifts), [Vector](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vector/gifts).



> A lot of the mannerisms, character traits and relationship dynamics of the characters of my fic are heavily inspired by tastewithouttalent’s amazing work (the name doesn’t give her credit). I fell in love with her vision of the Giriko/Justin pairing, so here’s my amateurish contribution that I guess can be seen as a tribute to her work. Right now it’s still action- and dialogue-laden, but we’ll get to the nice fluffy parts someday, don’t worry. Vector’s great smutt inspired me a lot, too. Also I've read Michelle H. C. Zhu's fics on fanfiction.net way too often to not cite her here (she writes a batshit crazy, awesome Giriko).
> 
> First fan fic ever! Also I’m not a native speaker of English, so feel free to point out things that sound odd, I’d be really grateful for that. Constructive criticism appreciated! Hope you like it!

Giriko stopped the roaring rotation of his chains and came to a screeching halt in the middle of a clearing.

The sudden silence rang in his ears. He panted, trying to catch his breath, the priest’s words put on repeat in his head. _Arachne is dead. Arachnophobia has fallen_. The prick had sounded so damn confident, but his utterances made no sense. No, no, they couldn't have lost! Not so quickly, not so easily. It simply wasn't an option. The priest just wanted him, Arachnophobia’s most dangerous warrior, away from the battlefield. _Yeah_ , that made _sense_. The dirty liar had tried to make him panic and he had almost fallen for it. _Stupid Giriko!_

What should he do now? He glanced around and quickly got his bearings. He was in the middle of the forest and judging from the sound and light of explosions in the distance, the battle with the DWMA wasn't over yet. There was still a chance for the tides to turn. He decided to go back to the headquarters and find out what the hell was going on.

He should go on by foot, now. Stealth wasn't his forte but he certainly wasn't dumb enough to alert everyone around of his arrival through his chainsaw’s deafening noise. He took on a quick step and headed straight for the Baba Yaga castle.

First he had to find Arachne and call her out on her treason. She would merely smile, scold him for his lack of trust and produce a satisfactory explanation, as always. Why would she had risked killing him, her most faithful servant? It was probably some kind of dumb misunderstanding. And hopefully Arachne would provide him with a good target for his rage. And if she didn't – he would still find someone to crush. After everything he went through today he had earned himself a nice bloodbath.

Inside the chainsaw the bloodlust and anger rose, filling every inch of his body. His breathing fastened, fists clenching spasmodically. He had to find out who was responsible for firing the castle’s cannons on him and his troops. And then - _he was gonna kill them! Slay them! Shred them!_

He first would kill the creepy kishin and finally get rid of the unease he was feeling since Arachne brought it back with her. Who cared if it was supposedly a god? Even god skin wouldn't resist the lethal rotation of his third gear. Asura would be reduced to bloody pieces within minutes.

And then he would kill that old wanker, Mosquito – neatly sever his ugly head from his body, top hat and all. He’d been dying to do that for way too long. Make a purple fountain shoot out of his wrinkled neck.

And then, finally - the little DMWA priest who dared to pretend Arachne was dead – _oh yeah_ , he’d have much fun killing _him_. How a single individual could be so annoying was beyond him. The headphones, the pretty fresh face, the superior grin, the arrogant speaking style – it was like all of his features were created with the sole purpose of putting Giriko on edge. And that he hadn't been able to beat him in a one-to-one combat not once, but _twice_ , only made it worse. But next time the chainsaw’s blades would cut right through him, _yeah_ , dismember that juvenile body and expose his guts for the entire world to see. The gory fantasy summoned a mad grin that crept up Giriko’s face for the first time since his fight with the priest. _Yeah, let’s gut that little whore_ \- that was a good plan, a good plan. His long strides quickened.

Giriko should have paid attention to his surroundings, he really should have because he had supervised the installation of most of the booby traps around the Baba Yaga Castle and the freshly ploughed strip of ground could have tipped him off easily enough – but he didn't, walked straight forward and on the bomb.

And the world fell apart in a fulminant blast.

 

*

 

...

_pain_

...

_everything hurt_

...

“Speak of the devil, he’s waking up. Seems Justin won the bet.”

“We can’t be sure of it yet, it’s too soon to tell. Let’s hope the bastard doesn’t pass the night – one problem we’d be rid off.”

“I don’t think so - he’s a big, tough guy, I’m pretty confident he’s gonna make it. We’ll have to deal with that asshole a bit longer.”

...

_pain_


	2. Rude awakening

 ...

_voices_

...

“His soul is too unstable, he’s too dangerous to keep here – why won’t you just agree?“

“I do, but he _is_ very valuable. And there might be a way to make him more docile if my idea works.”

“Oh Death, you seriously believe it? Stein, a covert optimist. My worldview is shattered.”

...

_who were they talking about?_

_..._

As he gained consciousness, Giriko could discern a male and a female voice, talking quietly somewhere in the distance. From the floating feeling in his belly it seemed he was laying on something soft – a bed?

Giriko’s eyelashes fluttered, only to shut as the painfully bright light drove screws in his brain. His head felt like it might explode any second. He became aware of a lot of other pain, too – he could not tell exactly where it originated from, there was nothing but hurt where he should have felt his body – but the headache overshadowed all remaining sensations.

“He’s awake.”

This voice was female, calm and quite close to his ear, and he motioned his head in its general direction. He tried opening his eyes again, managing a slit without his head combusting. He could now make out the blurry form of an unknown woman bowing towards him. She sported dark skin, bandages wrapped around her lower face, a nurse outfit and very piercing eyes.

“Can you hear me?” 

Giriko tried producing a sound of approval, but his dry throat felt hoarse and unrelenting. The woman immediately understood his problem.

“Drink.”

She produced a glass of water from somewhere and brought it to his lips. Giriko’s automatic response was to turn his head away in reluctance, but the appeal of the water was too high and he felt extremely weak, so he ignored the embarrassment and let the woman hold his head still and pour some water in his mouth. The cool liquid felt like a blessing and he wondered why his throat would possibly hurt so much. He took a few gulps, the woman patiently pouring amounts of water he could swallow without choking in his mouth until he emptied the glass.

Giriko tentatively tried producing sounds again and this time his mouth would work around the words.

“Wha...happ’nd?”

The woman, who he was sure now was a nurse despite the weird bandages, put the glass down on a bedside table and shot him a critical look.

“You stepped on a landmine.”

Giriko blinked, his brain feeling slow and numb. Yes, that made sense. There was the faint memory of a vortex of fire, of an all-deafening roar. The woman went on in a calm, professional tone.

“Fortunately, the mine wasn’t buried too close to the surface, and it was the crash against a tree rather than the blast wave itself that did the more important damage. You can count yourself lucky I guess. Besides minor burns on your legs, you have sustained a severe concussion,” - that would explain the excruciating headache - “two broken ribs, a broken wrist, three broken fingers, and your ankle is sprained. I had to extract a big shrapnel from your stomach earlier, and you’ve got a pretty collection of scratches to boot. But nothing that shouldn’t heal.”

Giriko felt his jaw go a bit slack at the listing.

The nurse continued. “That’s if we didn’t miss anything under the x-rays: I’m a bit worried about the state of your lungs, we’ll do a check later. And one for your eardrums, too. Can you feel all of your limbs?”

Giriko started feeling dizzy with all the news. His thinking was still mortifyingly slow, but he managed to notice that a crucial piece of information was missing.

“Where...m’I?”

The woman paused, her gaze hard and attentive. “You’re at the DWMA infirmary, _Giriko_.”

Giriko’s eyes widened, sending little bolts of pain through his skull.

_Fuck._

_Fuck._

_Fuck._

_How was that shit possible?..._

She resumed. “I have to admit we had a betting pool running on the question if you would make it out alive or not. It did look bleak for you for a while, you had lost a lot of blood.” Her voice took on a ferocious edge. “And we’re not necessarily _pleased_ with the present outcome of our little bet. But the DWMA has a tradition of not letting wounded men laying around on the battlefield, you see, so sadly you are here, and we have to get you to heal so you can _soon_ vacate the bed of my infirmary.”

She sighed and regained a composure, her voice even again. “So, once more, can you feel all of your limbs?”

 _Could he?_ Giriko was slowly recovering from the shock of finding himself suddenly amidst enemy territory but the question propelled him into a whole new state of panic. _Could he? Could he?_

He tried to move his feet, his arms, but could not lift any of his limbs. His head jerked up with mad fright so he could see his body, and the headache the sudden motion induced almost made him pass out. As the white spots cleared from his field of vision he managed to make three observations:

  1. He was wearing a frumpy green hospital gown;
  2. There were at least three other persons in the room, who were watching him with a shared predatory look that could only make them DWMA people;
  3. There were metal cuffs restraining his ankles and wrists to the bed.



He was tied down! He was _tied down_! His breath quickened as he tried clenching his fists and moving his toes. Sharp pain responded on his left side where he must had hit that stupid tree, and there was a cast on his left wrist and hand where the broken bones were located. The sprained ankle hurt like a bitch as he moved it, but despite the overwhelming pain signals from all across his body everything seemed to function.

Giriko felt a short relieve before the situation came crashing over him once again and he drew in a panicky breath. He was tied down! To a bed! In DWMA’s infirmary! In fucking _Death City_! He had to get out, get out immediately. Instinctively he let his chains appear on his legs and arms and tried to put them in first gear with a strained grunt, and the blade seemed dull and the rotation was a tad slow but it was _working_. Until the teeth of the chains bit the metal of the cuffs, making the rotation grind to a painful halt and sending reverberations shaking through all of his body. Giriko gasped in shock, eyes wide.

Then the black woman made a quick movement and flicked a finger at his nose, hitting the metal inlay with strength and accuracy. The impact seemed to vibrate through Giriko’s entire skull and the stinging pain that ensued drove tears to his eyes.

“You’re destroying the mattress, you idiot. _Stop_.”

The scolding tone and the humiliating fact that the nurse elicited such pain with a mere _finger flick_ made Giriko’s mind go ablaze with fury, the fear vanishing as if it never existed. He tried to latch out at her without any success, a threatening growl in his throat, his eyes hot with rage.

“You fuckin’ twat, untie me now or I swear I’ll make your guts spill on the floor!” His voice sounded broken and weak even to his own ears, but it still conveyed the intended feeling. “You DWMA people can all go fuck yourselves, I _swear_ to you I’m gonna rip you all to shreds! You hear me?” _He was gonna kill them! Kill them! Kill them ALL!_ He went on spluttering all the threats and swearwords he could come up with while ceaselessly pulling against his restraints, struggling to get up, but his throat grew more dry and painful by the second.

The black woman stepped away, shooting him a passing glance full to the brim with disdain. Giriko interrupted his cursing, trying to catch his breath. He felt as if he had swallowed sandpaper.

He calmed down long enough to scan the other people in the room. A bosomy blonde with an eyepatch adorning her soft features, a slim Asian woman with a severe look behind her glasses, and a tall, grey-haired man wearing a lab coat and _was that a giant screw in his head_? They all returned his glare for a brief moment, then began talking to each other, ignoring him.

“Did you see how his soul reacted when he got mad at Nygus? For a moment I thought it was going to burst in bloodlust. I’ve never witnessed anything similar. Does this support your theory, Stein?” the Asian woman said.

The man with the lab coat nodded. “It was an impressive display indeed. And yes, I am almost certain this results from flaws in the soul transfer process the enchanter used. It was probably intended that the feelings of the original Giriko be passed down untouched to present day Giriko, but instead it seems that over the centuries the soul accumulated the emotions of all the descendants he inhabited. No wonder those are too much for a single man.”

The woman nodded in agreement. “Still, that’s a madman if I ever saw one.”

“Fuck you!” Giriko called out from across the room.

Stein seemed unfazed by the rude interruption and went on, calm as a tomb. “So when the enchanter’s soul took over that of our Giriko over there...”

“Could you bastards stop talkin’ about me like I’m not fuckin’ _here_? Bind me free so I can shove my saw down your throats!” the chainsaw yelled in a raspy voice, seething. He could not, would not stand being ignored.

The stern woman with the glasses huffed in annoyance and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Stein, could you please shut him up? The noise is distracting.”

The grey-haired man nodded and stepped towards Giriko, who reacted with a vicious snarl and another empty threat. “Don’t come closer, shithead, I’ll cut you to pieces!”

Stein leant forward and placed three cool fingers on Giriko’s forehead. The chainsaw wanted to roar his protest, but suddenly he could not open his mouth anymore, and the only thing he produced was a muffled sound of panic. Nygus came closer and examined the weapon’s face, a look of interest in her eyes. “What did you do?”

Giriko held back a frightened whimper. He could not move his jaw a single inch and felt like he would choke on his own tongue any moment.

“Soul-thread,” Stein replied in his emotionless voice. “Sew his mouth close with my wavelength.”

“Well that’s a convenient trick! I really could use that whenever Black☆Star lands here. You’ll have too teach it to me.”

Stein resumed his explanations, his fingers maintaining their light pressure on Giriko’s face. “So, where was I? Ah yes, the soul transmission. By the way, feel free to correct me anytime,” Stein said to Giriko, conversational. The weapon could only glare hatefully in response. “It is certain that much unlike our Giriko here, the original enchanter was a true genius. He created the first golem and came up with an ingenuous mechanism to defy mortality, after all! A most remarkable man. But for some unknown reasons, it’s not his intelligence he was willing or able to pass on. Maybe this is linked to the predispositions of his descendant’s brains; this element remains unclear and will need further... examination.”

The man paused his speech a few second and glanced at Giriko’s skull with something akin to avidity in his eyes. The chainsaw felt a sudden shudder of foreboding run down his spine. There definitely was _madness_ in this look. Then the scientist averted his gaze and resumed.

“So instead, what the enchanter passed on were most of his memories, his hatred of his enemies, as well as an iron desire for revenge - the parts of his soul he judged indispensable for the accomplishment of his quest.”

“I don’t get it,” the blonde woman gently interrupted. “So this man – does he have the same soul as the original Giriko in a different body? Or is it a different soul altogether?”

“It’s a bit of guesswork on my side, but here is my hypothesis,” said Stein. “We know the original enchanter merged parts of his soul with that of his descendants, so that each one of these vastly different persons would in turn share his identity and uphold his legacy. But somewhere along the line, the descendant’s own feelings and desires became tied to the Giriko soul, piling bloodlust upon bloodlust and rage upon rage. So our man here – he’s the vessel of parts of the original Giriko’s soul, of those parasitic feelings that became attached to it throughout the centuries, as well as of his own soul, all irrevocably fused together in what is, at best, a mere caricature of the ancient enchanter.”

Giriko was listening to Stein’s explanations as intently as his fuzzy brain permitted, but grew only more confused. He _was_ Giriko, had _always been_ Giriko, Master Engineer and Enchanter, lusting for blood and vengeance – surely he had not been much different eight hundred years ago. Or had there once been more? He tried to remember his first life, but all images he managed to summon were vague and nebulous, distorted faces and forgotten places, like afterglows of an old dream. The only things that stood out clearly amidst the fog were his hatred of the God of Death, and the Plan – protect Arachne’s soul, resurrect her, make their enemies suffer. An easy enough plan, no problem recalling that. But what had been his motives, back in the days? How did the war with the Shinigami start? And what had been Arachne’s role in all of this? He felt that if only he could retrieve that memory everything would make sense again; but whenever he would reach out the memory eluded his mental grip, as slippery as soap. The effort of remembrance made his head spin and he ceased.

The Asian woman broke the silence. “Thanks for the demonstration, but I don’t see how that changes anything. I do not really care about how he came to be what he is now. What matters are the obvious facts: he is _insane_ and _evil_. We should just lock him away to rot, and don’t waste further time and energy on trying to fix him. Not at a time where you really should _rest_ , Stein.”

Stein impatiently shook his head. “Azusa, his soul might be really damaged, but it is in no way a kishin egg. There is no evidence he has ever eaten human souls. Apart from his obnoxious personality and his dubious associations there is no valid reason why we shouldn’t be able to put his considerable capacities to good use. My goal is to use Marie’s Healing Wavelength to remove the surplus of feelings, those parasitic emotions that are the real challenge to his soul’s stability,” He turned towards the blonde woman. “What do you say, Marie? Do you think it can work?”

The blonde frowned, thinking. “It’s an ability I've not used very often before. But even with a soul like his I suppose it should work. We should simply try,” she finished, looking at Azusa.

Said woman sighed and pulled her hands up in surrender. “Do as you wish, then. But try not wearing yourself out too much, Stein.”

The scientist shot her a fond smile and took a step away from the bed, rolling his sleeves up as if preparing for battle. Giriko felt a lump forming in his throat. _What were they up to?_

“Shouldn’t we wait until he recovers?” intervened Nygus.

“On the contrary, I think the probability of success will be higher if we try the intervention while he is vulnerable,” Stein answered. “He will put up less of a fight that way. Come on, Marie. Let’s resonate so I can amplify your wavelength. And remember, we have to be careful with his memories, they are precious.”

The blonde woman turned into a glistening hammer and landed in Stein’s outstretched hand. Giriko watched, stunned and frightened, as the pair started to glow with the energy of Soul Resonance. Where they really going to hit him with a demon hammer while he was cuffed to a bed, at his lowest and entirely defenseless?

Apparently yes - a second later Stein struck him in the belly with his weapon. But the surprise and pain of the blow were almost instantaneously replaced by a violent feeling different from anything Giriko had experienced before. He soon discovered he could move his jaw again when he emitted a visceral scream that threatened to tear his throat apart. His eyes began to roll in their sockets uncontrolledly while he babbled incoherent things in his native Czech.

Nygus whistled, impressed. “If that’s what your healing looks like, Marie, I’m thrilled to see how your victims feel when you try to actually hurt them.”

There was a golden light flooding Giriko’s inner being, so bright it was dazzling, but there was no shelter from it, it came from everywhere at once. Then the light became a physical pressure, the intense pressure of a giant hand that squeezed him, stretched him, molded him. One second his entire being was compressed into too little space, the next it was contorted as if his mere substance was torn apart. It felt as if he was a beach and the intruder a golden wave that relentlessly swirled up the sand. At first he tried to fight it, to hold the grain of sands that formed his mind back in place, but the light was overwhelming and too powerful. Soon he was dragged away by the golden maelstrom, patches of himself dissolving against his will, and he was losing footing and threatening to drown in the light.

Then it was suddenly over, and he was gone.

 


	3. Entranced

Marie transformed back and landed on her feet, face shiny with sweat.

“Well, that was new!” she exclaimed while wiping her forehead with her sleeve. “I had never actively tried to _morph_ a soul through my healing before.”

“Did it work?” asked Nygus, looking expectantly at Stein. But the professor merely raised a hand to ask for silence and sat down next to the bed where Giriko lay, seemingly passed out. Stein looked exhausted, but when he began to speak his voice was level and calm .

“Giriko, you are now deep in trance. At the count of ten I will snip my fingers. You will then open your eyes and answer my questions.”

Azusa held back an incredulous snort as Stein started his countdown.

“...8...9...10...” _Snip._

But Giriko did open his eyes, and from the passive look on his face it was obvious he had not properly woken up. The hypnosis apparently worked. Stein began to ask questions about golems and enchantments in a soothing, slow voice, and the chainsaw answered without hesitation, voice absolutely monotonous, his responses short and clear. After a while of back and forth, the professor smiled cooly, apparently satisfied with the answers Giriko provided, and his voice took on a harder edge.

“Good. Now listen, Giriko, you have a decision to take. You have waited eight hundred years for Arachne’s great return and the whole operation collapsed in a matter of weeks. The witch is dead, Arachnophobia is no more. You have failed.”

The chainsaw’s vitreous eyes seemed to widen as Stein went on, implacable. ”You’ve got nowhere to go, nowhere to hide, no one to join. You are a wanted criminal. For your crimes alongside Arachnophobia we can sentence you to at least twenty years of prison. With the serious menace to security that your weapon form represents, you would probably have to spend them in solitary confinement. But,” the professor emphasized, “You have skills and knowledge that are of interest to the DWMA. We are momentarily lacking forces in the technical department. We could use you.”

Stein halted his speech, observing Giriko’s unmoving stare.

“It is your choice. Twenty years of solitary confinement, or working with us. Think about it. I will now snip my finger again and you will fall deeply asleep.” And so he did, and Giriko’s eyes closed, his breath steadying.

Stein leant back in his chair, exhaling a deep breath, his face strained. Marie rushed to his side, gently stroking his hair. “Wow, that was impressive! I didn’t know you could hypnotize,” she told him admiringly.

“Learned it from books. Hoped it would work,” Stein answered in a tired voice. “Now we know his relevant memories are undamaged.”

“But why would you ask him for cooperation while he isn’t even awake?” Azusa asked. “Will he retain elements of this conversation in his conscious mind?”

“We will see. Thought he’d be more receptive to our offer in this state. At least his pigheadedness wasn’t in the way.”

There was a light knock at the infirmary door and Justin Law stuck his head through the entrance, muffled electronic beats in his wake.

“Hey guys. Am I interrupting?”

He entered and took in the situation, registering Stein’s half-collapsed stance, Marie’s slightly disheveled hair and Giriko’s sleeping form.

“Sooooo, any success with the Taming of the Shrew?”

Marie giggled and nodded, smiling bright. Justin let out a dramatic sigh. “What a pity. I did rather enjoy our little banters – I have rarely encountered someone so easy to set off.”

“Sorry we broke your toy, Justin,” Nygus answered dryly. “We’ll buy you another one.”

“Slow down, slow down,” Azusa intervened. “Marie, you think it worked because you can’t see his soul. For my part I am not convinced a proper transformation took place. This guy still oozes aggressivity and imbalance in a two mile radius.”

Marie’s happy expression began to fade, but Stein cast a consoling arm around her waist and spoke up. “You’re right, Azusa, but real progresses were made. Look at that swirl over there,” he pointed at something only both of them could see, since none of the others were gifted with Soul Perception. “See? Beforehand it was unceasingly inflating and deflating with anger. Now it is way more steady. And the whole volume of his soul has decreased, it’s not as restless as before, nor as supercharged with emotions. His soul has definitely gained a lot of stability.”

“Then why...” Azusa began to say.

“Well, from what I can tell, destructivity, aggressivity and rebelliousness are simply deeply rooted in his nature,” Stein resumed. “Which is why they are still so present although we got rid of the parasitic excess of feelings.”

“Oh, great!” Nygus deadpanned. “So he remains a jerk, but a jerk with a stable soul. Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Marie gave her colleagues a sunny smile and a thumbs up. “Still, a success!”

Justin cleared his throat. “Anyway, I came to deliver her share of the win to Nygus.” He handed her over a wad of bills. “By the way, Sid is rather bugged out that you bet against him. He said something about having partnered up with ‘the only knife that stabs his own meister in the back’.“

“Who else guessed right?” asked Marie over Nygus’ hearty laughter.

“Surprisingly few. Just Nygus, me and Lord Death,” said Justin.

“What? You let a Shinigami place a bet on whether someone was going to die or not? How is that remotely fair?”

Justin shrugged. “I’m always compliant to the will of my Lord.”

The meisters and weapons went on to idly chat about the pros and cons of being able to predict someone’s death, while Nygus busied herself with Giriko’s infusion bag. As the group proceeded to leave the infirmary she called out:

“Justin, could I have a talk with you?”

The priest nodded and neared the bed, his gaze lingering on Giriko’s sleeping face a few seconds. He then took a closer look at what Nygus was doing and clicked his tongue in disapproval. “What, you’re only giving him morphine now? No wonder he looks so crushed.”

“Don’t tell me how to do my job, Mister Executioner,” she replied, finishing the injection and putting down the syringe. “We needed his mind clear for the intervention. Aaand maybe, just maybe, I thought he deserved some pain for being such a pain in the ass himself.” There was a clearly mischievous glint in her eyes.

Justin shook his head in mock outrage. “Nygus, Nygus, I’m appalled. Where are your work ethics? Haven’t you sworn the Hippocratic Oath or something?”

“For nurses it’s the Nightingale Pledge and no, I haven’t. I’m just filling out the job, you know, since nobody in the DMWA’s administration bothered to find a new full-time nurse after the Medusa incident. Which, in situations like these,” – she motioned towards Giriko’s unconscious form – “Is becoming quite a bother. Which is why I wanted to talk to you.”

Justin quirked a disbelieving eyebrow. Nygus sighed, a pleading look in her eyes.

“Look, Stein urgently needs rest and Marie at his side to cure from the madness. Azusa is jumping through the mirror to Asia tomorrow, and me, I simply don’t have enough time left on my hands to take care of a rabid chainsaw in need of full-time surveillance. I have other patients, and lots of other obligations. Sid told me you planned to stay in Death City for a few months to do research at our library, so please, _please_ will you help me out?”

The nurse placed a hand on Justin’s wrist, looking questioningly at his neutral face. She waited a few seconds, then sighed again and played her trump card.

“And I’ll let you borrow my DJ-turntables.”

There was a sudden spark in the young man’s eyes that he did not entirely manage to conceal. Nygus inwardly smirked. She had him hooked. He still asked:

“And what about Spirit, or Sid for that matter? Can’t you ask them?”

“Soon they will both be away for field assignments. I did ask, trust me. But it seems you really are my last resort. Justin, _please._ ”

Justin’s expression did not waver, but after a moment and another quick glance at Giriko he nodded. Nygus cheered in delight and pressed a peck on his cheek. “Thank you Justin! You’re the best!”

“I know I am. Just don’t forget about those turntables, will you?” he said, his voice detached but his smile warm as he amicably squeezed her shoulder.

 


	4. Pattern Break

Giriko awoke in a content mood. He felt wonderfully floaty and mellow, as if someone had turned him into a giant marshmallow in his sleep. There still was lingering ache somewhere, but it was so dull and diffuse he did not feel concerned by it at all. In fact, he did not feel concerned by anything. Everything was perfectly fine. He was a marshmallow, a mellow, mellow marshmallow.

He spent what could have been a minute and what could have been an hour in this state of quite bliss, drifting in and out of slumber, face relaxed into a soft smile. But somewhere at the edge of his awareness there was a faint buzz. It was not annoying, but still hard to ignore. He needed a while to discern it clearly, and after he had spotted it he felt a dim curiosity as to what it was. It somehow felt familiar. _Hello there, little buzz,_ Giriko vaguely thought. _Whatcha up to?_ He gathered enough attention to listen properly. He first thought some bug produced the buzz, before deciding it sounded of electronic origin. Maybe it came from a lamp. Or a plug socket, perhaps?

But no, the buzz had a kind of pattern to it, its intensity varied a little, in what could be a ... rhythm? Now he was sure he had heard that noise before, and somewhere in the back of his mind a little alarm bell started ringing - _danger, danger_. It wasn’t just a rhythm, the chainsaw laggardly recognized, - _it was_ _a beat_. Glacial realization managed to pierce the thick clouds of the morphine to reach his consciousness, and then he knew exactly where he had heard that sound before and why this was very, very bad news.

_Fuck no._

Giriko slowly, slowly raised his head – which wasn’t an easy task due to his very approximate sense of up and down – and cautiously opened an eye, peering through his eyelashes, clinging to the hope of being the unwitting victim of a pernicious auditory illusion.

But no such relief. At a little desk in a corner of the infirmary, browsing through a weighty tome, sat the infernal priest, his stupid earphones unceasingly emitting distorted beats.

Giriko stared at him in disbelief. He was amazed by his own bad luck. Not only was he held captive in the headquarters of his archenemies while badly injured, but the most irritating person on Earth – and, very possibly, in the whole universe - was here as well! _Of course he is_ , said a reasonable voice somewhere in his head. _He works here_. Still, why was he _here_? Surely the DWMA building was big enough that Giriko did not have to endure the Death Scythe’s company. Not while he could not act on his promise to mince the priest to dog food, a promise he was very keen on keeping. What the hell? Here was his most worthy opponent of the last decades, sitting as if on display, the whole situation begging for Giriko to repaint the infirmary walls a glistening red; yet all he could do was to lay around like a complete wuss. _Shit._

The morphine induced dullness was starting to wear off, giving more clarity to both his ache and his annoyance. He let his head fell back in the cushion with a grimace.

The blond man – just what was his name again? – apparently noticed the motion over his book and gazed at him with a bright smile, that appeared so genuine the chainsaw’s jaw dropped in surprise. His voice was as friendly as could be as he called towards Giriko:

“Good morning, sunshine. Slept well?”

Giriko stared in return, completely befuddled. _What?_...

The priest’s smile widened as he cheerfully explained. “Nygus – the nurse you met earlier – asked for my support, so I’ll take care of you while you recover. Of course she will still check on you and administer the medication needed, since I have no proper medical training, but I’ll make sure you’re doing well so you can be off her hands. Means I will be right here if you need anything.” He patted the desk for further emphasis, unbothered by the chainsaw’s shocked expression. “The morphine’s effects should be ceasing by now. Are you feeling alright? Do you want further pain medication?”

Giriko opened and closed his mouth a few time without producing a sound, trying to come up with an appropriate retort to ... whatever _this_ was. He had quickly learned to hate the priest’s mastery of taunt and sarcasm, and how he always seemed to find the most unnerving insult in each situation. He had found that by keeping the man busy enough with fighting both of them would not have enough breath left for a battle of words. But what was the proper reaction to friendly concern? This break of pattern was unsettling and highly suspicious.

Deprived of his habitual and convenient solution to every problem in life – getting rid of it by way of roaring blades – , Giriko settled on a stubborn silence, glaring at the priest with defiance written all over his features.

“Don’t you want painkillers?” the young man repeated, looking at him expectantly. But after a while he sighed, apparently accepting that his questions would remain unanswered.

“Not talkative today, hmm?” he cordially said. “Too bad.” Without a further word he resumed his reading, and the chainsaw was left to ponder the implications of what he had just said.

A few minutes went by in which Giriko stared, the young man read, the only sound to be heard the muffled music from the earphones. Then the priest looked up from his book again:

“Say, Giriko, I was wondering ... Why did you ignore my friendly advice and went back to the castle after I told you Arachnophobia was done for? If you had listened to me you could be over the hills and far away by now.”

The chainsaw ignored the mention of a defeat he was not yet willing to acknowledge to focus on the rest of the other man’s statement. What did he mean, _advice_? Had the taunt actually been intended as a fair warning? _Why would he possibly do that?_

The priest resumed, his voice now full of calculated mockery. “But then again, our previous encounters had led me to believe you were quite the master in the art of beating a retreat, so you’ll understand that your recent behavior had me ... somewhat surprised.”

Giriko’s face darkened even further and he forgot about his pretended mutism long enough to hiss: “Shut the fuck up, noise freak!”

“Oh, good, you talk again!” the priest exclaimed, apparently delighted. “Now satisfy my curiosity and tell me why you went back to the castle. What were you hoping to find?”

“Just shut up already!” the chainsaw hissed and averted his gaze, grinding his teeth in anger. He did not want to be reminded of the three times he had to give up on victory in a battle against the Death Scythe, nor of the fucked-up day before the accident. He did not want to endure the priest’s infuriating presence, and he certainly did not want to be _watched over_ by that douche in a robe. No, he wanted to crush furniture and to behead anyone in his way, he wanted to be able to move and to fight, he wanted to get out of here and find Arachne, and he, and he ...

He badly needed to pee.

The realization of it took him by surprise, the feeling so sharp and intense it wiped all remaining thoughts of his mind. _Now? Seriously?_ He tried to repress the sensation, attempted to summon the marshmallowy feeling of the morphine again, but the inexorable pressure on his bladder was commanding all of his attention. He felt panic rise as he assessed his situation - how could he take a piss while immobilized on that bed? The word “bedpan” crossed his mind and he shuddered in horror. _No way._ Well, the alternative was to find a bathroom – and for that he would have to beg the fucking priest for _potty rights_. The mere thought of it made him clench his fists in blind anger. The other man was reading again, but there was an amused twitch at the corner of his mouth and he _knew,_ Giriko could have sworn the bastard _knew._ Giriko was still for a while, writhing in silent agony. Then the urgency of his need won over his embarrassment and he called out to the priest, loud enough to get the other’s attention despite his music.

“Oi, priest,” he barked in a commanding tone. “Untie me.”

The young man glanced up for a second, expression one of polite interest. “Give me a valid reason to do so and I’ll gladly oblige.”

Giriko took a few calming breaths. “I need to go to the bathroom,” he eventually succeeded to force out through gritted teeth.

“What was that? I didn’t hear properly,” the priest said, holding a hand to his ear, eyebrows raised in a question that the derision in his eyes belied.

The chainsaw growled and repeated the statement via a ferocious yell. “I need to take a fucking piss, okay?!”

The priest cocked his head as if considering his demand, and nodded. He stood up and came closer, his eyes locked on Giriko’s and very very blue. In them was the usual mix of arrogance and cold calculation that got the chainsaw nervous and angry in equal measures, and Giriko did not want the bearer of that look anywhere near him. Not when that man could transform to deadly steel in the matter of a heartbeat.

But soon the priest was so close he could discern pale freckles on the bridge of his nose and hear his regular breathing over the electronic beats and even _smell_ him – a light scent of incense and clean clothes. _Fuck_ , that was _way_ too close for his comfort. The blond man unplugged the IV that was stuck in the crook of Giriko’s arm before proceeding to free him from his restraints with unnerving slowness. Fingers, colder than the cuff’s metal, brushed against the chainsaw’s skin in unintentional touch and he refrained a shiver. How could someone of flesh and blood have such cold hands? Maybe it was steel that run in his veins as well. The priest smiled at him, seemingly unperturbed by their proximity while Giriko was getting more skittish by the second. The Death Scythe was still displaying this look that made him feel like a deer caught in the headlights, and he wanted to violently wipe it off his face and to run away and hopefully to dismember someone in the meantime.

Soon his sound hand was free. He fought with all his might to resist the urge to punch the priest’s smug face in order to retrieve some countenance – he could still beat him up _after_ the bathroom break, he told himself. Instead he prodded at his ribs with a cautious finger. _Ow._ He proceeded to sit up, and the sudden shift to verticality made his head throb like a drumhead.

The priest took a few steps back, pocketing the small key he had used. “Go on. The bathroom is over there.” He motioned towards a door at the other side of the room, observing Giriko like a cat that has found a mouse to its taste. The chainsaw glared in response, gesturing towards his ankle.

“Just give me some crutches, moron! This is a fucking infirmary, there should be crutches somewhere.”

The Death Scythe smiled brightly and turned away. He rummaged through the adjacent storage room for a minute and came back with a pair of crutches that he leant against the wall in Giriko’s reach, not bothering to hide his knowing smirk. The chainsaw now recognized the problem. He needed a crutch on his left side in order not to put weight on his sprained ankle, but he could not hold it because of his broken wrist and fingers. Crutches were therefore entirely useless, and he felt like an idiot.

He frantically looked around, thinking. He would have to cross approximately 7 meters to reach the bathroom door; if he leaned on the wall he could probably clumsily hop on his good leg until he reached it. There was some furniture to avoid on his way and he would look utterly ridiculous, but elsewise this should be feasible. He could at least give it a try. _OK, here we go_. He swung his legs out of the bed and halted for a moment, head spinning. He then carefully pushed himself up on his right leg, sound hand steadying him against the wall, and waited for his vision to clear from the colorful sparks that had invaded it. 

“Just say so if you need any help,” the priest commented. Giriko ignored him and focused on the task ahead. 7 meters. Easy. Relax.

He took a first tiny hop, flailing with his left arm for balance while steadying himself with the right, his left food trailing behind him. The motion summoned flashs of pain in his abdomen, ribs and fresh scar protesting against the abuse; but his bladder was still sending relentless signals of distress and he stubbornly carried on with hopping. Several bounces later he had crossed a meter and was slowly taking confidence in his movements. He aimed for a slightly bigger hop, lost his balance, and then everything happened really fast. In a second he had put his left foot down in reflex to regain his equilibrium, yelped in pain, lost contact with the wall and came crashing down – and then there was a strong tug at the neck of his hospital gown and he was hovering above the ground, eyes wide and nose mere inches from the floor.

“If this doesn’t show just how _well_ you do on your own...” said a dry voice, and the chainsaw understood it was the priest’s fist that was holding him steady.

Then the man loosened his grip and Giriko fell flat on his face.

He inhaled in sharp pain as he was reminded of his collection of broken bones with a vengeance, and remained sprawled on the cold floor for a moment, somewhat dizzy and unsure as to what exactly had just happened.

Next thing he knew the priest was leaning down to softly whisper in the cup of his ear, breath tickling the sensitive skin, and there was nothing amicable left in his condescending tone. “Ooops, did that hurt? I’m so _sorry_. Have fun crawling to the bathroom, big boy.”

And then he _patted his head_ and Giriko’s confused mind instantaneously exploded in anger.

“You stupid sonofabitch! I’ll fuckin’ ruin you! You filthy piece of shit, WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE, come back here, I’LL SMASH YOU!” Giriko was shouting at the top of his lungs as he scrambled to get on all fours, aiming a vicious kick at the blond only to collapse again with a cry as he inadvertently put weight on his wrist cast.

“ _Stupid_?” the priest drawled while casually backing away, always just barely out of reach. “That’s rich, coming from the man who managed to get himself blown up by his own booby trap.”

Giriko stared at him, face contorted with fury, growling like a rabid dog. He managed to get to his knees and in a flash there were rotating chains at his legs, carving deep scars in the lino floor. But he was unable to get to his usual crouch and the movement that should have propelled him forward became lopsided, and he collided with the floor again. The priest was strolling in his periphery, hands nonchalantly crossed behind his backs, and the chainsaw tried a few more kicks that had no other effect than to make him feel as if he had been run over with a steamroller, bones and muscles and brain aching. After a few minutes of that ridiculous non-fight Giriko was thoroughly exhausted, his vision blackening at the edges, and he scowled at the blond who was standing close nearby.

“Help me up, you fuckin’ asshole,” he commanded.

The priest smiled serenely. “Only if you succeed in making that demand a polite one.”

“Help me up, _please_ ”, Giriko spitted in the exact same tone, eyes threatening.

The priest laughed, a joyous, surprisingly vivid sound, and pulled at the chainsaw’s arm to drape it around his shoulders, lifting him to his feet without apparent effort. He placed his other hand at Giriko’s waist and the chainsaw had to lean into him, face burning in anger and unease. His nose was full of the smell of the other again, and the priest did not feel so cold this time, his neck warm against Giriko’s arm and his grip steady at his waist, and maybe he was human after all. The chainsaw let himself be half-dragged, half-carried to the bathroom and finally, _finally_ the blessed sight of a toilet appeared. There was a handle on the wall he could hold on to with his good hand, stabilizing himself on his right foot, and the priest let go of him. And could not hold back a final tease, that ignited the looming fire of the chainsaw’s rage:

“Should I hold it for you, too?”

With all his strength Giriko thrust his left elbow back into the priest’s face. He hit a cheekbone with a satisfying thud and sent the blond stumbling backwards, colliding against the door. The impact sent waves of fire swarming through his broken bones but the exquisite grunt of pain it elicited from the priest made it worth it a hundredfold. He gazed over his shoulder, triumphant, and the shocked expression on the other’s face felt like an actual physical relief. He deeply breathed in and out, calming down. The sight of the priest clutching his cheek with a look of surprised incomprehension was unexpectedly soothing to his temper, and he grinned.

The man recovered rather quickly from the blow, though, and shook his head, chuckling.

“Ah, well. I guess you’ve earned yourself some privacy,” he conceded, and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Giriko waited for a split second and let himself fall on the toilet, and it did not matter that he had to sit down like an old man because he could pee at last and it felt like a deliverance. He sighed in relief, refraining a pleased whimper as the excruciating pressure on his bladder decreased.

How far one had to fall, he abstractedly thought, to make pissing in peace feel like a victory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What majestuous closing words.  
> Also, yeah, I now have a chapter in which the main story line consists of someone needing to pee. Woo!


	5. Realization

Later on Giriko was back on the bed, his sound hand tied down again – he may or may not have inflicted this on himself after he tried to strangle the priest one-handed – , tracing random patterns on the thin blanket while he watched the Death Scythe out of the corner of an eye, when Nygus barged in. She was browsing through a folder, looking busy.

“Hey Justin,” she said, and Giriko could put a name to the priest at least. “I’ll need to conduct the spirometry and hearing tests I was talking about this morning, so you can go take a break, gonna need a while. Have you administered the pain medication I recommended?” She finally looked up and gasped in surprise. Her eyes widened as her gaze successively scooted over the carvings in the floor, the big gap in the backrest of one chair, and over the purple bruises blossoming on Justin’s cheekbone and neck. She stared at Giriko, who gave a non-committal shrug, and then back at Justin, who was displaying an angelic expression of innocence with obvious expertise.  

“Ok. So what the hell happened here?” Nygus snapped, her eyes hard.

The priest gave her his best placid smile, straightening up in his seat. “Oh, well, Giriko and I had a minor disagreement on an irrelevant matter, you see, but we managed to come to a satisfying conclusion withou ... ”

Nygus cut him off mid-sentence by slamming her folder on his head.

“Idiot!” she hissed. “That man has a severe concussion and multiple fractures, and you let him out of bed and _fought with him?_ ” The slightly guilty look on Justin’s face was confirmation enough and she shook her head, indignant. “Jeez, _Justin_! _”_

The young man began to voice a protest, but Nygus imperiously raised a hand, demanding silence. “Look, I don’t even wanna know the details, and don’t you dare try that good boy look on me again, you know it never fools me. I know it’s a favor you’re doing me here, but this job comes with a responsibility, to which you _did_ agree.” She sighed in exasperation. “So take it seriously if you don’t want me to get mad. We want that guy to heal, and if you provoke him to a fight every time you can get away with it it’s gonna be really counterproductive.”

Again the priest tried to raise his voice in his defense, but Nygus merely snorted. “Oh, _please_ , of course you provoked him, I know you,” she said. “You just can’t resist it, can you?”

To Giriko’s astonishment Justin actually seemed sheepish; his cheeks had taken on a faint blush and he was looking down at his hands, lips thin, delivering a flawless impersonation of a little boy that has been caught stealing candy. That expression looked _way better_ on him, the chainsaw thought with gleeful delight, a grin spreading on his face without him noticing.

“Sorry,” the blond mumbled, and it sounded so unlike his usual arrogance it did not seem to stem from the same voice.

Nygus’ expression softened and she huffed, calming down. “I’m sorry too,” she said. “I shouldn’t have snapped. Now go, the cafeteria had some warm food left when I checked before.” The priest stood up and she gently patted his shoulder. “And thanks again, still.” The priest shot her a half-smile and made his way out without further comment. Giriko waved his cast in a sarcastic goodbye, still grinning, and Justin scowled in response before shutting the door. Then Nygus looked in the chainsaw’s direction, eyes burning with cold fire, and his grin instantly soured.

“Now _you,_ ” she said, pointing a finger at him. “You really are an imbecile for letting yourself be led on when you’re in this pitiful state. But then it comes as no surprise.” He bared his teeth in a growl at the insult, but Nygus had already moved away, searching and finding an odd electronic instrument in the shelf. Without turning back she spoke on, and her voice was cool like a desert night. “Also, hurt this kid and you won’t see another day.” The threat was undoubtedly earnest, and Giriko frowned, alarmed. This was nothing to be taken lightly. He would have to try and keep his temper in check, but with the priest’s uncanny ability for being unnerving it seemed like an exceedingly difficult task.

The nurse stepped closer, stethoscope dangling around her neck, professionalism incarnated once again. “Ok, so this is settled. Now I want to perform some tests to assess potential damages to your lungs and your middle ear, and I’ll need you to sit up for this. Can you behave?” She apparently expected an answer, so Giriko muttered a grumpy affirmative.

“Good.” She unfastened the handcuffs and helped him to sit up, piling pillows behind his back. “Try anything funny and I’ll stab your eye out,” she negligently added. The contour of her hand blurred long enough to reveal a very sharp blade. “Got it?” He stiffly nodded with the instinctive wariness pointy objects tend to induce, and wondered for a moment what kind of weapon she was. Maybe a sword or an axe, but judging from her down-to-earth personality she would be something more practical. A knife, probably.

“ ’ts not like the Academy needs you with two eyes to build Golems, anyway,” she grumbled under her breath while fastening a clamp to his nose. He opened his mouth to inquire what she meant, but she stuffed the mouthpiece of the electronic instrument in it before he could say a word.

“Now breath in and out through your mouth, as deeply as you can.” He obeyed begrudgingly, and for a dozen minutes he was busy following the nurse’s instructions, holding his breath, inhaling and exhaling as strong as he could, breathing fast and then slow again, while Nygus wrote down the data rendered on the instrument’s display. It was painful, and boring. His patience was quickly reaching its end, but thankfully the nurse released him from the mouthpiece before he could do something stupid and he spit out the question that burned his lips:

“Why the fuck would I build Golems for the Shinigami?”

The woman put away her folder and the spirometer and shoved him forwards with more force than necessary, pressing the cold metal of the stethoscope to his back. “Because you wouldn’t be fond of the alternatives. Now shut up and breath in deeply.”

He did as he was told and waited until she was done before he replied, somewhat defensive. “I’ll die for my cause if I have to, ‘ts not like I give a shit .”

Nygus produced a humorless laugh while scribbling down in her file. “Your cause? What cause? Arachnophobia’s single goal was to give the witch the power to dictate world rules in Lord Death’s place. Even the madness campaign was nothing more than a convenient mean for an overthrow - that Arachne witch was way too much of an opportunist to care about trivial things like ideologies. In the end the whole damn war was just a dick waving contest on a massive scale.”

He wanted to contradict her, but did not have any arguments at the ready: he had never given much thoughts to Arachnophobia’s goals before. But then why should he? He was there, he served Arachne, he could _fight_ , that was more than enough. He was perfectly content with the state of war and couldn't care less about how long it would last or where it would lead to. So why the hell would he bother to contest or doubt the witch’s decisions? She wanted to spread the madness? Fine by him, it echoed the one he had felt pulsing through his veins for so long. About time the world got a taste of it too. If this was all merely about bringing Arachne to power, so what? She deserved it, way more than that skull-faced bastard ever had.

Even as he thought so there was a nagging question at the back of his mind. What kind of world _did_ Arachne intend to create once she had the power? And, more importantly, had he once cared?

The nurse finished comparing her results to a chart and absentmindedly hummed in satisfaction. “Lungs looking quite good.” She snapped her folder shut and grabbed an otoscope. Giriko flinched when she put it in his ear and the woman disapprovingly clicked with her tongue. “Hold still.”

She calmly picked up the thread of conversation, and her voice sounded a bit foreign around the obstruction in his ear. “Also, who talked about dying? We’re not going to kill you, do you really think I would bother to coddle you up if you’d be executed tomorrow?” She proceeded to examine his other ear. “As ironic as it may seem, Lord Death is not big on death penalties, at least not for souls that aren’t beyond salvage.” She snorted in obvious displeasure. “And yeah, as unlikely as it seems yours counts as such.”

She paused in her work for a moment and looked straight in the chainsaw’s eyes.

“No, if you don’t cooperate with us you’ll simply be locked away so you can peacefully rot in the DWMA basement. Has been a while since we had permanent residents, but we can still accommodate you, don’t worry.“

Giriko felt his stomach clench. Execution would have been a much more pleasant perspective. There was nothing he hated more than feeling trapped – his irascible temper was not fit for confinement, and he had had a tendency for claustrophobia for as long as he could remember. Prison would be hell.

The thought swirled through his head while Nygus held a vibrating tune fork to his ears and asked him questions about his hearing, to which he distractedly answered. He was nervously fidgeting with his necklace and the tube of the IV in his arm, and when the woman was done with the test he had gotten himself worked up enough to ask:

“What does the DWMA want me to build Golems for, anyway?”

“After the battles we fought with Arachnophobia, Lord Death has decided he’d rather send animated piles of clay than soldiers to back up the Meisters. And, when I look at the number of casualties we sustained, I can’t help but agree,” Nygus explained while she put away her instruments, sounding bitter. “We lost way too many good men at the hands of the likes of you.”

“Maybe they weren’t that good, then,” Giriko snarled before he could contain himself, and half-regretted it when he saw the surge of hatred in the nurse’s eyes. He was expecting another threat or maybe physical injury in retaliation, but Nygus merely stared him down, eyes so hard they would probably cut through diamond like a knife did through butter, and after a minute he had to avert his gaze, feeling something almost akin to shame.

“Whatever, in any case there’s no way I would work for that Death God and his minions,” he said, feeling defensive again. “I ain’t no fucking traitor.”

She shot him an inscrutable glance and turned away before she quietly answered:

“No you’re not.” And then: “There’s no one left you could betray, anyway.”

Giriko went completely still. Her words held such finality that for the first time since he stepped on that damned mine he started to believe that maybe the priest hadn’t lied.  

Nygus helped him to lay down again, closed the metal around his wrist and talked on: “So, ears looking good, too. No eardrum rupture for you. Hearing loss only minimal.” She said more things, but he was not listening and her voice dulled to a blurry background noise. He scarcely registered when she made her way to the door and told him Justin would show up later.

If he remained entirely motionless, maybe the realization would cease its creeping progression through his brain? He barely dared to breath.

Then the door shut with a bang and he was utterly alone.

 

*

 

It was early evening when Justin brought the chainsaw some food, and the infirmary was flooded in the yellow light of sunset as he entered it. Giriko was looking out of the window and seemed lost deep in thoughts; Justin’s greeting remained unanswered. The priest held back the snarky remarks that danced at the tip of his tongue, Nygus’ scolding still fresh in his mind, and laid down the food tray on the bedside table in silence. He began to unlock the handcuffs without stirring any reaction from Giriko. Justin scanned the chainsaw’s face with curiosity, noticing the way his jaw clenched tight and how he stared as if he had forgotten how to blink, and what followed did not came entirely as a surprise.

“Lady Arachne... she’s really dead,” said Giriko in which was not really a question, eyes still locked on the windowpane. His voice seemed to travel across a great distance.

“Yes, she is,” Justin answered, his voice devoid of the usual teasing edge, and waited for a reaction, intrigued.

After a long silence, the chainsaw produced an additional syllable, almost to quiet to hear. “How?”

“We don’t know the exact circumstances of her death. It is certain that kishin Asura ate her soul at some point of the battle. Why he did so, we’ll probably never know, since Asura’s dead, too.”

_So it had been the kishin._

Giriko nodded curtly and averted his head, inwardly bracing himself. The chainsaw was excepting the familiar surge of bloodlust to soar through his veins, like he was used to, like it never failed to do whenever he had thought of getting back at his enemies before. But the raging flame never came. Somehow, his inner fire felt extinguished, as if someone had stomped on it a few times too many, leaving cool ash in its wake.

All these years he had waited for her return, his beloved mistress, so he could serve her again and share her vengeance and taste the blood of their common foes on his lips. Sheer mortality had not been a viable option, for she was still in need of his services. So he had eagerly complied to her wish and found a way to escape death again and again, had lived a plethora of meaningless lives and fought against boredom and madness for generations, laying low so he wouldn’t compromise the Plan, so he could protect the Golem her precious soul was encased in. Anything less would have been betrayal.   

After all, what where centuries when it came to serving a woman like Arachne. He may have forgotten a lot of things, years and decades blurred to impervious haze - but he sure hadn’t forgotten her. She would not have allowed it, anyway. Never again had he encountered such raw power, such authority and magnetism in a being, witch and human alike. He who never submitted to anyone, to whom the mere idea of being wielded by a Meister was a mortal offense, had strived to be her tool, the instrument of her wrath, had strived to be anything she would require. Being graced by Arachne’s content smile, leading her army to victory, feeding his bloodlust in the steaming entrails of their enemies - that would be payment enough. She and the Plan had been the driving force of his life for centuries, the center of gravity of his own little world of blood and hatred and madness.

Giriko brought a hand to his face to shield his shut eyes. He took a shaky breath, trying to force air into his clenched lungs.

And now all of it was gone, forever. After eight centuries of wait, Arachne was gone. Dead. Devoured by the monster she lured into her own lair.

Despair made Giriko’s vision go black for a second as loss and failure submerged him, burning through his heart like vitriol. He temporarily lost consciousness of his surroundings while the same agonizing thoughts spun over and over through his head. _All in vain...all in vain...all in vain_.

Then there suddenly was a hand on his knee. It felt cold and steady through the fabric of his hospital gown, an anchor against the vast emptiness that swelled in his chest. First he stiffened at the contact, ready to shake it off, then somehow lassitude got the best of him and he allowed the hand to rest comfortingly on his leg. Another defeat, albeit minor. He felt so exhausted he couldn’t bring himself to care much.

A long moment passed by in which he let the feelings wash him away, hollow him out until he thought he would crumble to pieces if he had to stand it any longer. Instead he focused on the sensation of living flesh against his own, drawing on it to fend off the void in his heart. Then he breathed out a long exhale and regained a composure, forcing the grief and hurt to withdraw to whatever corner of him that wouldn’t show on his face. He let his hand drop back to the mattress with a dull thud.

Justin removed his hand from Giriko’s knee and stood up from the edge of the bed. “Eat, it’s gonna get cold,” the priest said without looking at the chainsaw, expression one of absolute neutrality. He left without so much as a glance back.

On Giriko’s knee the cold lingered in what felt like the ghost of a touch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah, so this is the reason why my story is tagged with "Angst".


	6. Night Visitor

When the knock came Giriko had been lying awake for hours in the darkness.

Justin had not tied his wrists back to the bed before his departure and had not showed up again, enabling some freedom of movement, at least. He had thought about using this opportunity for an escape, but had discarded the idea. Even in the fantastic case in which he would make his way out of a building full of murderous Meisters while hopping on one foot – and he had painfully experienced how well _that_ worked out –, where would he possibly go? He was stranded in the middle of Nevada with no clothes, no money, and all of his allies either dead or imprisoned.

Regardless of that, he wouldn’t know _what_ to do, and this consideration laid heavy on his mind, utterly foreign. His upcoming path of actions had been crystal-clear for ages, the Plan always providing limpid instructions. The Plan that had utterly, preposterously _failed –_ failed him. There he was, still alive – _again -_ , and devoid of all familiar landmarks. Not that he had much of a say on where his journey would lead him, anyway. A life as a prisoner or fraternizing with the enemy: both perspectives were equally dire.

His future looked bleak and his present held nothing but looming pain and a bitter taste in his mouth, so Giriko found himself musing on his past.

Remembering was an activity that had become highly unusual for him somewhere along his lives. When work did not provide its comfortable oblivion, he would always manage to find enough distractions – booze, fights, sex, even TV in later years – to avoid thinking too much about what was, what could have been. What was the point? There was no use crying over spilt milk, no need for regrets or “what ifs”; life moved on whether you wanted it to or not. Giriko had lived dozens of lives according to this principle: firmly rooted in the present, with no other care than the next few minutes, rushing on with the forward momentum of a boisterous locomotive. It was probably what had allowed him to maintain a semblance of sanity, in the end.

But now he had reached the terminal stop, and felt compelled to look back.

It was pointless to spend energy on remembering his lives in Loew (lives that were _his_ but hadn’t been _him_ and when had all of this become so confusing?). Most of them had been short and insignificant anyway, following the same dull formula over and over until one existence bled seamlessly into the next. Ceasing to feign normalcy meant endangering the Golem in which Arachne’s soul rested and he had never been willing to take that risk. He had had to stomp down his rising madness, to borrow deep the urge for vengeance and carnage and chaos, that slowly but steadily grew with the inerrability of the rising tide. The repressed feelings had become undistinguishable from self-destructivity at some point, and his bodies had started to wear out at an alarming speed.

It was the life that started all of this he wanted to regain, the life in which he had been Giriko for the very first time. That had been so very long ago, an abyss of time - retrieving the memories across it felt like fishing in a dark ocean. Again all there was were glimpses of pictures, flickers of thoughts, fugitive remnants of feelings; but this time he did recognize some of them. Prague, the Golden City, still young and full of promises; clay, warm and soft under his fingers. Arachne, her lips moving on words he could not hear. But he was unable to fit these fractions of memories into a proper frame, the underlying narrative hiding deep in the murky waters of his mind. His past felt like a maze, and he was baffled by the time it had took him to notice he had lost the key to it. But now he was set on finding answers and kept stubbornly digging and digging in his brain for an entrance, a link, anything that would allow him to unravel his own history.

The knock on the door startled him out of his brooding.

First he thought he had imagined it, a sensory hallucination owed to the late hour and the all-too present ghosts of the past. But the knock was reiterated, more insistently, urging Giriko to give some kind of acknowledgement.

“Uh...yeah?” he called, voice hoarse from being unused for so long.

The door silently swiveled on its hinges, revealing a well-lit corridor. There stood a dark silhouette, so tall its head grazed the ceiling, casting an immense shadow in the yellow rectangle the doorframe painted on the room’s floor. Its face was impossible to make out against the crude light.

“Hello hello!” said a chirpy male voice, at an almost unbearable volume. “Sorry to disturb you in the middle of the night. Mind if I come in?”

Giriko watched, perplexed, as the person entered, closed the door - plunging the infirmary in the dark once again-, and stepped forward to sit down on the empty bed next to his. Giriko’s night vision wasn’t bad; in the faint moonlight that shimmered through the window he managed to discern a face. Except it was not a face. It was a white, stylized skull mask.

“So-hooo, how have you been, Giriko?” said Lord Death, booming voice full of energy. “Are you settling in?”

The chainsaw’s heart skipped a beat. It was... It was the Shinigami _._ Right there. It was him.

In all the centuries in which he had hated the Shinigami for everything he had inflicted on him and Arachne, he had never once been close to him. The God of Death had grown to a mere abstraction in his mind, a target for his agonizing frustration to focus on, the skull mask a guest star of dreams and nightmares alike. Now the Shinigami sat only two meters away from Giriko, very real and tangible all of a sudden - the unexpected proximity was almost overwhelming.

Giriko’s pulse started to race, pounding in his ears like war drums. It wasn’t a dream this time, he thought with febrility. This was real. This was _real_.

He could act. He could leap. He could transform and land a hit. Tear through the black cloth and through whatever was underneath, tear through the very substance of the Shinigami. Splatter blood. Right here, right now, _this very second - he could undo his nemesis_. Destroy that thing in Arachne’s name. Have his revenge. _His goddamned revenge._ He almost felt the give of flesh under his blades’ assault as the familiar urge to _kill, kill, kill_ throbbed in his veins.

Amidst an expanse of pale bone twin black pools stared at him.

Giriko couldn’t help but stare back. Impenetrable darkness laid dormant behind the mask’s openings, appearing to drench all light, a promise of fathomless depths. But the void felt alive somehow – there was a presence there, something immensely powerful. The more he watched, the more Giriko felt sucked into the pitch black gaze, as if he was falling down a never-ending well. It took all his might to tear his gaze away from the mask, and when he finally succeeded he gulped for air like a drowning man, confused and dizzy, the instinct to attack molten away by whatever lured in that vertiginous darkness.

He hadn’t expected the Shinigami to irradiate so much power it felt suffocating at close quarters. The being that sat across from him was old, older than maybe time itself.

But then Giriko was old in his own right, right? The thought helped him to calm down, heartbeat slowing down up to almost normal speed. When the adrenaline had receded he searched out Lord Death’s “face” again – the God was idly twiddling two gigantic thumbs. The motion stood in ridiculous contrast to the magnetism of his gaze, and Giriko steeled himself enough to force a question out of his dry throat.

“What do you want from me?”

The God seemed a bit disappointed to see his attempt at small talk ignored. “You get straight down to the nitty-gritty, don’t you, hmmm?” _Why the goofy voice?_ , Giriko wondered. “Well, I wanted to see with my own eyes how you were doing and ask if you were considering our offer. Your talents would be very welcomed at the Academy, you know, hmmm? I have big hopes we can put aside our past differences and have a productive exchange of ideas!” He sounded downright enthused with that prospect.

There was something fishy there. “What ‘past differences’ do you mean?” Giriko cautiously asked.

Lord Death waved his enormous hand in an evasive gesture. “Oh, you know, that little dissension from back in the days. It’s all water under the bridge now, right?”

“What dissension?”

“O-ooh, I see. You don’t remember the details.” The God scratched his head and his voice took on a somewhat afflicted tone. “Stein did say your memories were a complicated issue, with the soul transfers and Marie’s intervention and everything...”  

He cocked his head, apparently hoping Giriko would let the matter go.

“I ain’t remembering anythin’,” the chainsaw bluntly said. It felt wrong to admit that, to someone else as well as to himself, like pointing out a weakness, but he wanted, needed to know. “What are you talking about?”

Lord Death thoughtfully tipped the chin of his mask, seeming to weigh the pros and cons of an explanation. After a while he sighed. “My, my, where do I start?“

Giriko let out a breath he did not know he was holding. Answers. He would finally get answers!

“So, so, right, the 12th century.” The God’s voice transitioned to the somewhat grave, universal register of storytelling. “Back then you - or rather the first “you” - were a renown Enchanter, a man of great knowledge and ambition. Even my good friend Eibon was impressed with you, you remember Eibon?” Giriko gave an elusive shrug; the name did sound faintly familiar and stirred up some foggy memories.

“Anyway, these were confused and chaotic times,” Lord Death continued. “The witches more cunning and bold with every passing day, the Eight Warlords breaking apart... And then Eibon became obsessed with his researches on immortality. Things got a bit out of hand!” His voice took on a comical upward inflection as he flapped his giant hands for emphasis. “Eibon discovered a lot of things along his quest - on souls, on their physical integrity, their relation to the body which hosts them... Thrilling, revolutionary, _dangerous_ discoveries. Discoveries that could do great harm, should they fall in the wrong hands. And some of them did fall in the very wrong hands.”

 _Arachne’s_ , the chainsaw thought with some pride. The Shinigami was quiet for a few seconds – if Giriko was not mistaken, the form of the mask’s eyeholes had shifted, lending it a wistful expression.

“For the first time I understood that modern science could present a serious threat to world order,” Lord Death added somberly, and silence rose.

Giriko did not allow it to settle. “What’s this got to do with me? I was doing Golems, right?” he asked. But even as he said so there was a reminiscence of something else, of intricate enchantments and of subtle chemical concoctions that had nothing to do with bringing clay alive.

“Hmmm, well, no. Word soon got around that you started your own researches on Soul Transfer.” Lord Death shifted uneasily. “I saw it as too big a risk of it going down Eibon’s path,” - he pointedly looked away - “And may have taken some...drastic measures of precaution.”

Giriko felt a flicker of premonition. The link to his past was right there at the edge of his perception, like a dark spot in his peripheral view, and he was so distracted by that find he almost missed Lord Death’s next words.

“I put you on the Death Inquisition’s heretic list,” the God said, and produced an embarrassed little cough. “Hum. I probably owe you an apology for that.”

 _The Death Inquisition._ The name echoed in Giriko’s head, formed on his tongue with the bitter familiarity of a thousand curses. He _knew_ that name – with terrifying intimateness. Suddenly he had the key to the maze, the missing memories finally at reach, and blurred pictures gained shape in his head as if he had adjusted a broken lens. The darkness of the infirmary filled with images and he _saw_.

“What then?” the chainsaw asked in a hoarse whisper, but this time he already knew the answer, saw the answers.

He saw the skull-adorned black robes, that had inspired such terror across the continent. Henchmen kicking down the door of his laboratory, the stench of burning wood and chemicals, rainbow-colored flames casting strange shadows.

“It was the usual procedure. They tortured you, tried to prize a confession out of you...” The voice of Lord Death resonated as if from afar, the two meters of actual distance notwithstanding. Giriko was lost in the pictures inside his head anyway.

He saw blood, his own blood staining the gloves of his butchers, deafening screams tearing his throat apart, his skillful hands twisted and broken. The overwhelming despair, the fading esperance of release, and underneath it the hate, the tremendous hate towards his persecutors. And then...

“And then the witch Arachne freed you.”

He saw a black clad silhouette in the entrance of his cell, hand extended. The surge of hope at her promise of revenge, his immense gratitude, his oath to serve her, body and soul. Her entrancing speeches about science and freedom, about the utmost necessity of sacrifices, about the meaninglessness of casualties in the face of progress. How her words had become his one and only truth.

“And you worked for her, helped her with her research on Demon Weapons, until I took her down.”

He felt her weight in his arms, heard her erratic breath as she begged him to ensure her survival in spite of the mortal wound. How her beautiful body had dissolved to millions of spiders, and the pulsation of her soul in his hands as he had held it close to his heart before encasing it in the golem.

“Now you remember, hmmm?”

Giriko gave a stiff nod, eyes shut, as more details resurfaced, the images unraveling with ease now that he knew where to look. The memories filled a void he did not even know was there, aligning themselves so perfectly in his mind space one could not tell they had not always been there; but for all the familiarity they felt foreign. It had been his life, his suffering, and he should have felt fresh fury, fresh hate at the reminder of all he had lost. But he felt disconnected from the events. If this had been so important to him, how come he had forgotten all about it? _That’s because that wasn’t me_ , he tried to tell himself, but struggled with the thought. What did the scientist guy say again: he had the memories, he had parts of the soul, but he was not the same person? How did that even make sense?

He felt let down. Instead of giving him the clear footing he longed for, the memories had disoriented him even more. Now he knew what had happened, but why did he not feel what he was supposed to? Where was the iron will that had led him to fuck up twenty-eight different existences in quick succession? Where was the mad craving for revenge that would make these sacrifices worth it? _All gone_ , he thought. _There’s nothing left_.

All this hassle, all these struggles, for a reason that was...almost petty in the end. _And for Arachne_ , he corrected himself. _And for Arachne._

He gave an angry sigh and massaged his right temple with his knuckles.

“So what now?” he growled to the Shinigami’s attention. “You’ve fucked up my life once, you want a rerun?”

The God folded his huge hands in his lap, voice now devoid of all goofiness.

“I took some regrettable choices back then, but the decision to repeatedly take over your descendant’s souls was yours and yours alone. That’s...how many? Twenty-eight souls you cannibalized, if you count the one you are currently part of? Hmmm?”

 _If only I knew who “you” is_ _supposed to be_ , Giriko thought, feeling mildly hysterical.

“Your time is due, Giriko; you’ve managed to thrive under the radar for a long time, but now I have blacklisted your soul. Next time you die will be the last.”    

The chainsaw felt like laughing. Mortality? That would be new. Not unappealing, though. He felt so very, very tired.

“Now, it is your choice what happens next. Are you taking up our offer?”

Giriko stared at the ceiling and thought of Arachne. What would she think of all this?  How disappointed in him would she be?

But then he had waited for her for eight centuries when all he had was her promise to come back; he had already given her so much. Did he have to dedicate Arachne his remaining life when hers had already found an end?

“I’ll just have to build some Golems, right?” he eventually said.

“Hm-mm.”

Giriko sighed again, overwhelming lassitude weighing down on his chest. This was his last attempt at a proper life, right? And he had to start with something anyway, right? So he would be a forced laborer to people he hated. How mortifying.

Hell, whatever. He didn’t care anymore.

“Ok, then,” he said, and closed his eyes. “I’ll give it a shot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lack of Justin here!  
> Not really happy with this one, but with it out of the way I'll hopefully have more motivation to write the funnier things. Hope you'll find my weird backstory to your liking!


	7. Small Mercies, Small Miseries

_ksh-ksh-ksh-ksh-ksh-ksh-_

BANG!

_ksh-ksh-ksh-ksh-ksh-ksh_

CLANG!

_ksh-ksh-ksh-ksh-ksh-ksh_

“GOOD MORNING. I BROUGHT BREAKFAST!”

_ksh-ksh-ksh-ksh-ksh-ksh_

Giriko opened a blurry eye to a room too brightly lit, and repressed the urge to burrow his head under the pillow.

He sighed instead, and shot a baleful look towards the disgustingly energetic Death Scythe, who was apparently still around to make his life miserable. Despite the early hour – the bedside clock said 7AM -, Justin moved through the room like a whirlwind, throwing windows open and closet doors shut, banging a food tray on Giriko’s bedside table, and moving things around without discernable purpose. In his wake, distorted, erratic fragments of melody filled the space, like cancer turned noise, each electronic tune another aggression towards Giriko’s sleep-addled mind. The chainsaw managed an unhappy groan. Too much stimuli. Too loud. _Well hello, headache, I hadn’t missed you_ , he thought as the back of his skull throbbed with renewed ardor.

Not even real morning yet and the priest was already such a pain in the ass. Just Giriko’s luck: his ass was possibly the only part of his body that wasn’t hurting right now.

“HAVE YOU SLEPT WELL?”, the priest asked.

Giriko recoiled from the noise, teeth bared. Justin raised a sceptic eyebrow, as if the amount of decibels his mouth had just released was no reason for such fuss.

“Shit, quiet down, you’re like a walking megaphone,” Giriko muttered, rubbing his eyes with his sound hand. His eyelids still felt heavy with sleep.

The priest had the nerve to look confused. “WHAT?”, he said, at a volume that could shatter glass and maybe even rocks.

“YOU’RE FUCKING LOUD, DUMBASS!”, Giriko yelled, and hissed as white-hot pain flashed through his torso. _Owwww_. Broken ribs and fresh scars didn’t mix well with shouting, he thought too late, taking careful breaths until the pain receded to something bearable. He slumped back in the cushions, feeling tired and weak. Fuck, how he hated it.

Out of the corner of an eye he saw Justin fumbling with a device, until the earphones’ ugly beats became barely audible. “How thoughtless of me,” the priest said and stuffed his music device back in his pocket. “There, is this better?” His face was earnest and apologetic, as if he meant what he just said.

Giriko frowned. If yesterday’s taunts hadn’t taught him better, he would be inclined to think the Death Scythe was being considerate. Now he knew this had to be Justin’s bizarre brand of psychological warfare – and _no,_ the hand-on-his-knee-event didn’t change a damn thing. “What twisted game are you playing?”, he murmured to himself.

Justin shot him an enigmatic smile in response, damn his lip-reading-skills. That asshole probably thought he was being clever, the way his blue eyes twinkled. They had a light, cat-like slant, Giriko noticed. A perfect wannabe-sphynx.

The chainsaw gave a demonstrative eye roll, and focused on the food tray, which held a bowl of the same weird gruel he hadn’t touched the previous evening, pills, water and some tea. He didn’t feel hungry, but there were delicate vapor tendrils curling over the tea cup, igniting a sudden longing for the hot beverage. He could already feel it warm his stomach, nowhere as good as the comforting burn of alcohol, but with the big benefit of being available. He clumsily propped himself up on his left elbow and reached for the cup, ignoring the various areas of his body that loudly protested against the movement.

A pale hand snatched the tea cup away.

Giriko stared at where his own extended hand grasped at thin air, and slowly looked up. He knew death glares weren’t _actually_ lethal, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t try.

“Uh-uh”, the priest said with a stern look, and shook the plastic pill container with a rattle-like noise. “Medication first. Your hand, please.”

After a few seconds of inner fight between pride and lassitude, Giriko held out his right hand, still trying very hard to promise a thousand deaths with his eyes alone. Justin emptied the container in it. A dozen of pills of different sizes, forms and colors gathered in the chainsaw’s large palm like the world’s least appealing candy. He eyed them suspiciously.

“What do I need all that shit for?”

Justin frowned. “Uhm, I know that, just give me a second ... ” He designated each pill in turn. “Those are pain meds, that’s anti-inflammatories, this one’s an antibiotic, that’s an anti-, uhm, anti-something, too. Here’s ... wait, uh, Pepcid, I think, and this one – uhm, no idea what that one is. Nothing bad, I guess.”

“What a great nurse you are,” Giriko snarled, not reassured. He preferred his medicine liquid and high-proof, thank you very much.   

“I’m more of a babysitter, technically,” Justin replied in a light voice.

Giriko merely huffed at the jibe, and muttered, feeling childish: “You tryin’ to poison me?”

The priest laughed at that, the sound clear and ringing like a bell. “That’s not my style. When I liquidate someone, it’s always upfront!” he said with a broad smile, and he had never born less resemblance to the cold killing machine Giriko had once faced. “Also, you’ve agreed to Lord Death’s deal, haven’t you? If you build things for us, that means you’re part of the DWMA. And I don’t kill my colleagues, as a matter of principle.”

News travelled fast around here. Giriko felt his guts clench and bitter bile rise in his throat, so he hurriedly tossed the handful of pills in his mouth and washed them down with the water before he could lose his countenance. If only shame could be swallowed down that easily, he thought. _Colleague._ Urgh. _That_ implication he hadn’t gathered from his late-night chat.

Justin made a little approving noise, as if the chainsaw was a rather dumb dog that finally learned a new trick, and Giriko really wanted to punch him, but then what was new under the sun. He took hold of the tea cup instead, and burned his tongue on the first sip. _Of course_. Somewhere in the universe, a sadistic god was making sure no part of him was left unharmed. He hissed a long string of his dirtiest curse words and felt viciously satisfied when the priest backed away a step, looking slightly startled, the little prude.

A sharp tug at his ankles when he tried to move reminded Giriko of another implication of his new _status_. He called out to Justin, kicking to make the short chains binding his ankles clink.

“Is it usual to keep your _colleagues,_ ” he spit out the word like it tasted of rubbish, “In chains?”. Hopefully it wasn’t? Who knew with those Death suckers.  

“Oh, right, hold on.”

To his great relief, the locks soon clicked open under the priest’s fingers and Giriko was free to go wherever his mess of a body would take him. Or maybe he could kick in those perfect teeth to ruin the Death Scythe’s sly grin. He managed to sit up without spilling the tea or tearing the IV tube out of his arm, and dreamily contemplated the possibilities. How would Justin look with a tooth gap?

“How sad. It suited you,” the priest sighed, dangling the handcuffs from one finger. _Still smug_ , Giriko answered his own question with faint annoyance. He indulged in letting his chains run freely on his legs for a few seconds, a friendly reminder it was unwise to push him. The shrieking roar felt as soothing as a cat’s purr to his ears, but for the first time he could remember he barely managed the transformation, too exhausted to focus. White tufts of shredded blanket drifted through the air like tiny butterflies.

“Wow, I’m scared,” Justin drawled, voice dripping condescension like some exotic venom, and sat down at his desk to start working; his blond head started bobbing up and down to the rhythm of his music. For a few moments the anger Giriko felt at that pale, arrogant _pieceofshit_ of a priest obscured even the headache. He very seriously thought about leaping right into attack, to make a terrible, bloody mess and give the priest every reason to _be_ scared. But there was the fatigue that radiated from deep within his bones, and slaughter didn’t seem quite worth the effort in the end. He took a few sips of tea, gobbled three spoonful of the disgustingly bland gruel, wrapped himself more snuggly into the torn blanket and was asleep the second his head hit the pillow.

*

Nygus really couldn’t stand him, Giriko decided, registering the nurse’s pinched expression as she removed the IV tube from his arm. Her face wasn’t bandaged today for some reason, and bore no trace of the hideous scars Giriko had been half-expecting the wraps to cover. She’d be very pretty, with her full lips and high cheekbones, if it wasn’t for the way her mouth curled in distaste every time she looked in the chainsaw’s general direction. It was soothing, in a weird kind of way. No ambiguity here, he knew exactly what to expect from her: no pity, no mercy, and a whole lot of distrust. Fine by him. The feelings were reciprocated.

“Untie your shirt”, Nygus ordered, putting on latex gloves. “I have to check on your wound.” The underlying annoyance in her voice was probably related to Giriko’s new-found lack of restraints; he had heard her argue about it with Justin while he was slowly waking up. She’d have preferred to lock him up, it seemed. _But that ain’t gonna happen_ , _you paranoid cunt,_ Giriko thought with some defiance.

He began to work open the knots holding the front of his hospital gown together, casting a leery glance at Justin, whose face was hidden behind an ancient-looking manuscript. It was difficult one-handed, but he managed to open the garment enough for access to his abdomen. He looked down at himself in order to locate the wound amidst the diffuse zone of pain, and gulped. The scar, a thick, angry red bulge, had the length of his hand. A thread held it together, its black zigzag a stark contrast to the swollen flesh. Giriko reached out to touch, but Nygus swatted his hand away and carefully prodded the wound with a gloved finger herself. It hurt, but not as much as his earlier screaming fit had. The pain meds had probably kicked in.

The nurse angrily sighed.

“Of course, after your idiotic behavior yesterday, some of the stitches just had to tear open.” She shot a reproachful look at Justin over her shoulder, who had been watching the scene with curious eyes, and the young man quickly ducked away behind his document. ”Should have thought to check. I’ll have to renew it.”

Giriko harrumphed and chose a random spot on the ceiling to focus on while Nygus disinfected the wound with something achingly cold. He steadfastly began to list things he’d like to drink in his head. Maybe he’d manage to keep the stabbing and pulling sensation at bay. Whiskey. Brandy. A cool craft beer - _a tug like a fiery caterpillar worming through his flesh_ -. Cognac! Port wine!

By the time the nurse was done, Giriko was trembling and would have given a kidney for something alcoholic. Probably a lung, too.

“See, wasn’t that bad,” the woman said while rinsing her needle. _What a bitch._

“I’ll cut you up, then you can share the fun,” the chainsaw snapped. To his relief his voice did not quaver. “How long ‘til I can walk again?”

Nygus rolled her eyes at the threat and shrugged, unconcerned. “Hard to tell. Depends on how fast a healer you are. From the swelling I guess it will be three to five weeks until the sprain gets better. And six to eight weeks for the broken bones to mend.”

That meant at least three weeks of relying on that blond douchebag for almost _everything_. He didn’t remember being so helpless in _any_ of his lives. Hell, why? Somewhere, the sadistic god was snickering in glee. Giriko nervously ran a hand through his hair, and was surprised to pull it back covered in dark smudges. Soot, he recognized. At once, he felt disgustingly grimy.

“I want to shower,” he announced. _Scrub myself clean of this whole disaster of a situation_ , he didn’t add.

Nygus looked him over, sniffed once, and nodded. “Wouldn’t hurt. I guess a sponge bath won’t do?” She chuckled at his indignant expression. “Thought so,” she said. “Let’s get that scar wrapped.”

“And gimme some real clothes afterwards,” Giriko added while she plastered a plastic film on his abdomen. “I’m _sick_ of that hospital garbage.” That mint-green cloth made him want to puke, honestly.

“So demanding,” Justin interjected. He had been keeping track of the conversation. Of course. Giriko cast him a scornful look, and the priest smiled back like he always did.

Nygus looked like she was torn between the impulse to disagree with Giriko on pure principle, and the desire to make her job easier by keeping him halfway docile. The latter won. “Justin, go get some clothes,” she ordered.

“Yes, ma’am.” The young man stood up and smoothed down his black robe. “I’m thinking pink and frilly?”

Giriko facepalmed. Nygus merely shook her head in resignation and muttered something sounding like “kids”.

“Need anything else?,” the priest added teasingly on his way out. “Scented soaps, loofah, motor oil?”

“A toothbrush,” Giriko grumbled, minding the tea’s tart aftertaste.

“A toothbrush let it be. Alas!,” the young man exclaimed in a faux-dramatic voice, bringing a hand to his forehead in one sweeping movement like an actor in a tragedy. “I almost envy you. That shower’s a marvel. The massage spray is to fall for, and one could fit an army within those tiled walls.”

“What, wanna join me?” Giriko said dryly, and took a mouthful of water to rinse away the sourness.

Justin stopped in his tracks, one hand on the doorframe, and shot him a smoldering look over his shoulder, back curving like a cat’s. “My, I might just take you up on that,” he purred.

The only way the Death Scythe could have been more suggestive was if he had winked and waggled with his eyebrows. Giriko spurted out his drink, eliciting a curse from Nygus who’d been in the way and got soaked, and began coughing madly. The priest disappeared in the corridor, a bout of laughter in his wake.

Had he just been _hit on_? Parts of Giriko were busy fending off the cough-induced pain in his ribs, but his mind was franticly doing the math: subtract the heavy priest garments, add glistening droplets to wet the skin just so, and the end result was _riveting_. The priest’s hair would turn a deep honey blond under the shower spray, lips shimmering with moisture, and rivulets of water would pool in the hollow of his back when he’d bend down to ... – _holy shit_.

 _Mind out of the gutter, man_. That was a bad, bad trail of thought if Giriko ever had one, and he really should nip it in the bud before the image of Justin as some kind of shower naiad rooted itself too firmly in his head. Neither the right place, nor the right time to fantasize about banging his pretty little keeper into oblivion. Nygus was giving him a suspicious look, so the chainsaw put some effort in erasing the bewildered expression from his face and hoped he didn’t look as turned on as he felt. The priest should be proud of himself, he inwardly fumed: he had successfully put Giriko on edge, which seemed to be the Death Scythe’s end goal at all times. No respite to be had in this godforsaken place, Giriko thought dolefully. Now even his libido was used against him.

He cleared his throat and looked up to the nurse. “Is he always that ?...,” he made a vague motion with his hand.

“You bring out the worst in him,” she simply stated.

*

On the plus side, the shower really was a true marvel. There was a plastic stool to sit on, enough room to stretch his long legs, and the massage spray was as good as advertised. On the down side, his ribs were hurting with every movement and it made the whole cleaning up part a tad difficult. So Giriko just sat there, letting himself be boiled alive in the hot steam with delight, and assessed his body. He had discovered while stripping that his entire left side looked like it had served as a canvas for a painter of debatable taste; the bruises his usually tan skin bore ranged from a greenish yellow to the deepest of purple. A few crimson scratches scattered here and there were a certain indicator that tree bark wasn’t the gentlest exfoliator. But hey, he had all of his limbs left. That was more than lots of his former opponents could say, he thought with a smile, fond memories of his blades plowing through flesh and bones replaying on his mind.

Man, he really loved being a chainsaw. There was nothing comparable to the mechanical maelstrom he could unleash at will. Weapon blood had been in his veins for a few lifetimes now – Arachne’s lifework finally mingled with his very substance – and he hadn’t stopped reveling in the ability to transform ever since. He was quite proud of some of the tricks he had learned as one of the few autonomous weapons out there, and totally in love with the furious roar and the pungent smell of gasoline of his weapon form. If this had to be his final body, than fine. He had had worse, and was glad he hadn’t fucked up that one too much yet.

He sluggishly lathered himself up, trying not to get foam inside his waterproof cast cover, and watched as greyish water poured down his shoulders and into the drain.

He had survived worse shit. Time to move on now. Forward was the only direction he knew, anyway. He’d be all right. Right?

Later when he was clean, dry and screaming himself hoarse at Justin for daring to hand him a T-shirt prominently featuring the DWMA skull logo, like they could _brand him_ like fucking cattle, and frenzied, impotent fury was coursing through him like wildfire, he thought he probably wasn’t all right at all.

But the priest’s gaze, for all his face was impavid and his eyebrow cocked mockingly, was flickering to the nipple piercings adorning Giriko’s bare chest on a regular basis, and there was something unsteady in those cold blue eyes. The chainsaw felt his anger recede somewhat, lips curling into a predatory smirk.

The tips of Justin’s ears were beet-red.

Maybe there was some fun to be had.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I’m no doctor, I’ve never even set foot in a hospital as a patient, and I draw all my vague medical knowledge from dubious internet websites. I try to keep this somewhat realistic, but please don’t try to draw any kind of medical advice from this fic ;)  
> Also, it’s been so long since I’ve updated this story! I’m so sorry :( I’m a very slow writer, and it’s been even slower lately. But the next few chapters are all mapped out and the worst of my thesis-related stress and depression is over, so I hope I’ll be more productive in a near future. If you’re still following this: I love you! Thank you! If you're a new reader: Hello, feel welcome to comment!  
> Hope you enjoy.


	8. Interlude: Stein

_A few days later..._

“Well, if this isn’t Mr. Law. I see no book in your face? Did your research provide some results already?”

“Oh, yes, thanks for asking, Professor. I think I might be close to a breakthrough in Death Theology, but I have to wait for documents from Geneva before I can come to any conclusion. Our library really needs to be updated. But how are you? I hope your soul is sound and rightful again?”

“Indeed, my recovery has made some unexpected progresses. It appears that the increased level of carnal intimacy between Mrs. Mjölnir and I provides strong help in purging my soul from the madness. Who would have guessed?”

“Oh! That’s, uhm, very interesting.”

“No need to blush, Mr. Law. Sex is a natural and healthy way of harmonizing soul wavelengths; it’s very similar to resonating, actually. Not that you’d know.”

“...”

“That was a joke, Mr. Law. No offense meant.”

“... None taken, Professor.”

“On unrelated matters, how is that fascinating specimen of yours faring after we toyed around with his soul a week ago? I heard Nygus has you keeping an eye on him.”

“Ah, you mean Giriko? Well, he’s still very grumpy, but he doesn’t seem to want to kill me so badly anymore lately, so I guess that’s a progress? He still resents it a lot when I take care of him, though.”

“Is that so? I hope that the task isn’t too ... strenuous.”

“Oh, no, it’s not much of a bother. Giriko’s rather entertaining, really, he’s a lot of fun to wind up. Also, he gets very creative in his cursing when he is bored, and as much it pains my ear to hear such vulgar language, I can’t deny that it is educative. I expanded my vocabulary by a dozens of swearwords already.“

“... I see. How _interesting_.”

“Professor?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drabble drabble babble. I just missed Stein, okay?


	9. Adjustments

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: spiders

“So, the thing is, clay is stubborn, ‘kay? It doesn’t want to move, it never wants to do what you want it to do. So you have to outsmart it.”

“Sounds familiar enough,” Justin answered with a discreet smile.

Giriko looked up from his little clay puppet, frowning, but decided to let it pass. He carved a final string of runes on the back of the miniature Golem, and held it up for Justin to see. Apart from a blank space on its front, the Golem was entirely covered in intricate symbols that snaked their way across its surface, weaving complex patterns of interlaced spirals. 

"So you restrict the options for what it can do. That way when you give it the final push it can only act along the paths that you lay out for it."

"A bit like programming," Justin suggested, and pensively traced one of the runes with a finger.

Giriko gave the idea a few seconds of thought, and shrugged. "Yeah, maybe." He resumed his explanation. "Usually you have the Enchanter gloves to work the basic magic into the clay while you mold it, but here I had to do the groundwork by hand. Takes a lot more time so I don't usually bother, but you can make your final orders more subtle that way."

"How subtle is subtle?" Justin asked, and rested his chin in his hand, leaning forward. Over the last twenty minutes he had pulled his chair closer and closer to the chainsaw's makeshift workstation, but Giriko was currently relaxed enough not to protest this invasion of his space. He was always calmer when he worked.

Giriko grinned, and affectionately patted the clay puppet on the head. He didn't bother to keep the pride from shining through his voice. “It's easy. My Golems do whatever I want them to do. If they were any smarter they’d write fucking poetry.”

Justin raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "I long to see that," he said, and cast a vague look at the stack of paper laying on his lap, that he had been steadily ignoring in favor of watching Giriko work. When Giriko reached for the quill, Justin unscrewed the bottle of golden ink without being asked to, and the chainsaw had to suppress a laugh. What had been intended as a little warm-up practice had evolved into a full-blown demonstration of his Enchanter skills, and Justin appeared to be engrossed. It had been a while since Giriko had had the occasion to show off like that, and it was rather nice.

"So tell me, what d’you want it to do?" Giriko asked, flattening a tiny piece of black paper on the desk as best as he could with the cast restricting his left fingers' movements.

Justin's blue eyes narrowed in consideration and he was silent for a while. "Dance the kazachok," he eventually said.

Giriko barked an incredulous laugh. "The kazachok? The hell? Don't you want it to do something a bit more interesting? Dunno, trim your nose hair, something like that?"

"I like my nose where it is, thank you," Justin answered coolly, and Giriko couldn't argue with that. It was a very handsome nose. "And I'd like your Golem to dance the kazachok."

Giriko chuckled and dipped the quill into the thick golden ink, careful not to splatter on the paper. He briefly mused on how to formulate the spell, then wrote it down, the arcane mix of Latin, Yiddish and Persian flowing as naturally as breathing from the tip of his quill. It was sometimes hard to remember he was the one who had put that language together all those centuries ago. But then it hadn't been _him_ him.

He put down the quill and picked up the paper, shaking it softly for the ink to dry. And then, because it had been at least two hours since the last innuendo, he held it out right in front of Justin's nose and said, "Blow me."

The priest raised his eyebrows in his default expression of sceptic amusement. But then his tongue darted out to wet his lips, and he gently blew on the wet ink, cheeks hollowing, gaze steadily holding Giriko's. The chainsaw's throat went dry.

Since what Giriko had inwardly dubbed the "nipple accident" three weeks ago, they had progressively established a game of aggressive flirting, sprinkled with a healthy dose of insults. The unspoken end goal was to get the other to blush, stammer or show any other sign of being affected, and to this point Giriko couldn't pretend he was winning - the kid had a way of getting to him that was almost supernatural. By an equally unspoken agreement, the flirting ceased whenever Nygus entered the room.

Giriko had to admit Justin's presence had become much more bearable now that their exchanges had gained this undercurrent of sexual tension. The priest was still a pain in the ass who tried to get on Giriko's nerve as much as he could, but despite his priest robes he had proven himself a worthy and creative player in their battle of innuendos, more than once throwing Giriko's jibes back at his face with a twist that had him gobsmacked. Also, he blushed so prettily.

It spiced up the utter boredom that were Giriko's days, and gave him something to focus on that wasn't how shitty he felt or how the mere foundations of his existence had crumbled to nothingness. And nice images to jack off to when the nights were long and the ghosts of the dead wouldn't shut up.

The ink had to be dry now, so Giriko willed the image of Justin's hollow cheeks to his collection for night-time use, and rolled the slip of paper to as thin a tube as he could manage. Then he placed it in the hole in the middle of the Golem's cranium, and smoothed clay over the entrance with a stroke of his thumb.     

"Is it finished yet?" Justin asked.

"It lacks the word of power," Giriko said, picked up the scalpel, and carved " _emeth"_ on the blank space on the Golem's front. The puppet came to life, stretching his tiny limbs as if to test them, took a few hesitant steps and tilted his crude features towards Giriko.

"Now it's finished," he told Justin, who was staring at the Golem's movement, flabbergasted. Then Giriko wiped the " _e"_ of " _emeth"_ away, and the life vanished from the being as quickly as it had appeared. "But first it has to dry before it can demonstrate its fancy party trick. Put it in the sun."

Justin picked up the little Golem with caution, looking at it as if it might bite him - it would, once it was active, Giriko had made sure of that - and placed it on the windowsill, in the bright Nevada sunlight. When he turned back, there was genuine wonder on his face. "That was ... quite amazing," he said earnestly.

Giriko gave him a lazy grin, and ran his fingers through his hair, probably smearing remnants of clay everywhere. “Of course. I’m the best,” he stated. Modesty had never been his strong suit.

He eyed his remaining supplies, trying to estimate what he could build out of the rest of clay. He made a mental note to ask for material to build a metal structure for the next Golem. Two days ago a bulky man by the name of "BJ" (he had waited for a few seconds for the punchline to drop, but no one has laughed), with whom he was told he’d work, had come to visit, and asked him to write down a list of the supplies he would need to produce Golems. Surprisingly enough, BJ had dropped by this morning with a sample of everything Giriko had asked for, and Justin had set up a worktable opposite his own desk.

The rest of the day had been very enjoyable.

It had been a while since doing something as trivial as modeling clay had filled him with such thrill, but these three weeks of inactivity had been excruciating, despite his chats with Justin and the occasional painful health exercises. He was also looking forward to have something to do when he was alone. Justin was around for six to seven hours everyday, but that left almost the same amount of wake time he could spent ruminating dark thoughts. On two occasions the priest had been called off for some kind of mission, and those days had been the worse ones since the nipple accident. Nygus had graced him with an hour or so of her icy company, but the remaining daytime had had him going almost insane from boredom and the sensation of being trapped to that fucking bed he could barely leave on his own. The sprain was still bad enough that he couldn't touch the ground with his feet without pain shooting up his leg, even if the swelling had decreased considerably.

The next hour was spent in companionable silence. Justin was back to reading and taking notes in that giant notebook of his, earbuds firmly in place, as always, and Giriko had decided to challenge himself to build a Golem horse. Those had fallen out of fashion on the verge of the 16th century, after an infamous accident involving a group of Prague noblemen and a bloody stampede, but Giriko wanted to see if he could still pull off the complicated spellwork. Justin threw the occasional curious glance to the bulky creature slowly taking form under the chainsaw's big hands, but didn't comment.

The priest finally piped up. "By the way, why do your Golems wear overalls?"

"Hmm?" Giriko looked up from the hoof he was kneading and shot Justin a wicked grin. "Well, you don't want them running around showing their privates, now do you?"

Justin's shoulder shook in silent laughter. He did that, sometimes, and it made funny things happen in Giriko's belly. He'd have to think about it. Maybe. "Do they even have privates?" Justin asked, smile wide.

"Oh, _mine_ don't," Giriko said idly. Justin's eyes widened in shock at the implication, and Giriko let the silence grow, ripe with ghastly pictures, before he added: "You'd be amazed what bored Enchanters come up with in their downtime."

Justin shook his head in disbelief, abashed, and was silent for a minute, staring at his notebook like it held the answers for the depravity of the human soul.

"There are interesting moral implications that arise from this issue," he eventually said in a semi-serious tone.

"Oh, certainly," Giriko answered. "Heard a few of those 'issues' were quite popular with the ladies, over in Bratislava." Crazy how much some woman would pay for sex that couldn't knock them up. And that ceased immediately when they spoke the order.

Justin toyed with the Death Cross around his neck, apparently still deep in thought. When he took a deep breath, Giriko was left wondering how he had become so used to the kid that he knew exactly what was to come. In the last three weeks he had found out some things about Justin. That he had just turned eighteen. That he was nicknamed the Executioner for his almost flawless record of lightning-fast kills. That his preferred genre was electro-swing. And, most importantly, that he wouldn't shut up once you got him talking about philosophy or theology.

Mostly Giriko let the flow of academic terms and references to famous authors he'd never heard of flow right over his head, with more or less patience (rather less). But sometimes he got sucked into the debate, mainly when the subject was theology - Giriko had no tolerance for that bullshit -, and the arguments got quite heated. Often enough they ended with Giriko cursing at Justin until he was out of insults, or settling to sullen silence. But once or twice they had reached some kind of consensus, and were both very confused by that result. It had been so long since Giriko had been in a situation in which he had had to fight with his words, not his fists - he had forgotten how intellectual challenge felt like.

So when Justin predictably started to rant about the dehumanization of sexuality and the moral quagmire of 'allowing objects to fill the vacuum of intimacy', or whatever, Giriko wasn't as bothered as he tried to appear. And hid a smile behind his hand. 

*

The puppet crossed its tiny arms, squatted, and threw itself into an impeccable series of kicks and jumps. Occasionally it hurled his arms up in the air in a sweeping gesture, did a 360° turn, and never lost its balance. Giriko hummed the melody an old Russian ballad, slapping his thigh to the beat, and eyed his creation's dance approvingly. He really was damn good at his craft, there was no denying that. 

He let the Golem perform his routine a few more minutes, monitoring it closely to detect any potential cracks in the clay, then snipped with his fingers. And - yes, the puppet saluted, and wiggled its little bottom in his direction. Perfect. Justin would be delighted.

Now to the horse. He carefully placed it on the ground, mindful of the fragile legs, and carved the word of power on its forehead. The horse shook its featureless head, waiting for orders.

"Trot," Giriko said, holding his breath in anticipation. The spellwork had been impossibly complicated, which was in itself a good explanation as to why Golem horses had disappeared. The tiny horse initiated a clumsy trot, swaying like a boat on high sea in the process. Its progression wasn't linear by far, and Giriko frowned, annoyed. He'd have to rewrite the spell another time to try and weed out the errors.

But maybe the other motions worked better. "Gallop!" Giriko ordered. The horse rushed forward in one powerful motion, stumbled the landing, broke a hind leg and fell. Its remaining limbs miserably galloped in thin air, reminiscent of a beetle on its back.

"Oh, screw you, dumb piece of shit," Giriko snarled, and threw a fork at the Golem that twitched on the floor. Well, that was disappointing.

He ushered the other Golem forward, swiped its " _e_ " away, and then the infirmary was silent and motionless in the gray light of crepuscule. He slumped back on his bed, sighing.

He stared at the ceiling. There was a black dot that hadn't been there the night before, and when he watched closer it started scooting across the surface. A little spider, then, he understood with a sudden pang to the heart.

"Hey you," he called towards the ceiling. The spider crawled this way and that, then began to rappel down on a thin silvery thread, as if it wanted to reach out to him. For one crazy second Giriko thought he saw a red glint in the spider's minuscule eyes. Hope flared up inside of him like the quickest of poisons, his heart beating madly while some part of him was suddenly wide alert and screaming _MAYBE, MAYBE, MAYBE_. But of course it had just been his imagination, and he was left reeling from the shock of disappointment. _Oh Arachne_ , he thought with renewed grief. _Why did you have to go get yourself eaten?_ By such a sucker, too - Justin had told him that it was that piggy tail girl that had killed Asura. Giriko had ground his teeth for an entire hour afterwards. "Why couldn't I die by your side?" he asked the little spider. There was no answer.

He missed her. He missed feeling her soul thrum when he placed his palm on the First Golem. He wanted to wink towards that little spider and know that Arachne saw it, saw his unwavering loyalty, knew that she could count on him, always. He missed trailing behind her tall figure, he missed glaring threateningly at anyone who didn't pay her the appropriate deference. He missed her smile. He missed knowing with absolute certainty where he belonged.

The few weeks after her resurrection had been so short. 

His gaze fell to the Golem standing silent vigil at the foot of his bed. At least he had something to look forward to for the upcoming day. His mood lightened when he thought of the face Justin would pull when he'd see the Golem dancing. He hoped he'd get himself bitten.

His thoughts trailed off towards the future. Two, maybe three more weeks, and he would be released from the infirmary. His ankle was the only reason why he was still here - the scar on his abdomen had healed cleanly, the ribs were hurting less with every passing day, and the broken bones in his left arm were a very minor inconvenience.

He'd work with BJ then, who seemed to be easy enough to get on with, in an unknown location, but probably still in Death City. He'd live ... _somewhere_ , he'd have a steady job. As long as they didn't put the ugly skull face under his nose, he could probably forget for whom he worked.

He wondered if he'd still see Justin around. They had a duel to settle, after all. Now that there was no war to distract him, he'd totally kick that punk's ass. Who'd be the Executioner then, huh?

He fell asleep with the picture of Justin writhing at his feet in mind. He wasn't entirely sure if dream-Justin was clothed or not, afterwards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have a fast-forward and a rather dry chapter in which very little happens.  
> In case you've never heard of it, Kazachok is a thing! It's a traditional Slavic dance, it's very athletic and it looks awesome.  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rNXKuwhhC1c <= Here's a video of Soviet soldiers performing the kazachok, the signature move I describe is seen e.g. at 2:00. 
> 
> Also, wow, I've written almost all of that chapter in one day! Hasn't happened since February. Hope I'll stay on this streak! I have two other Girijasu stories in progress, one smut, one AU, though both are far shorter than this one. I'll publish them when they're complete. Also, check out the Girijasu or Giriko tag on my tumblr (https://randomishnickname.tumblr.com/) for random headcanons, sketches and other related stuff. 
> 
> Comments make me giddy and happy <3
> 
> Update: smut completed! It's called "Trust" and I'm quite happy with it.


	10. Interlude: Nygus

“...and so I told Sid, listen, darling, you may be a zombie now but there’s no way we’re having a graveyard in my own garden. I mean, he’s dead, but that doesn’t mean he shouldn’t try to be sensitive, you know? And then he had the nerve to ... Justin, are you even listening?”

“Um, sorry. You were saying?”

“... You are doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Spacing out, looking at nothing. Smiling that weird little smile. That’s the third time since Tuesday.”

“So?”

“So? It’s really unlike you, that’s all. Since when do you smile like that?

“Why, is this bothering you? I didn’t thought a friendly facial expression was a reason for concern. I’m following perfectly common social conventions, you know.”

“It’s just ... strange, the way you’ve been acting lately.”

“It isn’t. I smile all the time. I’m the friendly, approachable face of the law. Will you please stop staring at me like that?”

“... Justin.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Tell me it isn’t what I think it is.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Please, _please_ tell me you’re not...crushing on that guy?”

“...”

“...”

“Alas, Nygus, I can’t understand a word you’re saying! Woe is me! May I suggest you visit an speech therapist? Until then, thanks for the meal, my dear, see you around!”

“Hey! I know you can lip-read, you little shit, don’t you dare walk away on me like that! Hey! Justin! We’re not done here!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Stein has an idea. Giriko doesn't like it much.


	11. Shards and Chains

Two weeks later, Giriko was sitting on the edge of the bed while Nygus talked him through exercises for his ankle, when he heard voices arguing in the corridor. He recognized Justin's, and pricked up his ears. The priest hadn't showed up the last two days, but he had promised he would see Giriko to the apartment in which he was going to live. Maybe he was coming to pick him up? Nygus had told him his release was imminent, and the prospect filled him with anxious restlessness.

The voices neared, and Giriko couldn't make out the words but could tell Justin was upset, a rarity in itself. What was going on?

The infirmary door flew open, and he could catch the last half of a sentence.

"... completely unnecessary and downright counterproductive," Justin was saying.

He and a man, whom Giriko recognized with dread as the weird scientist who had hit him with a hammer, entered the room, obviously caught in the middle of an argument.

"I don't think you're really objective on that particular matter, Mister Law," Stein dryly replied.

"What are you insinuating?" Justin hissed back, eyes ablaze. Giriko didn't think he had ever seen him that angry. It was hot, in an incongruous way. But also alarming.

Stein didn't bother to answer and gave Nygus a curt nod, his cold gaze scooting over the chainsaw in passing.

"Can he walk yet?" he asked her straight up.

"A good morning to you too, asshole," Giriko grumbled, annoyed, and tried to catch Justin's eye, but the priest kept staring at Stein.

Nygus folded her arms, head cocked in question. "He shouldn't walk more than a few minutes at a time, but we're working on it. Why?"

"So he's mobile," Stein concluded, nodding as if that new information confirmed something. "Then it becomes a necessity to deal with the monitoring issue."

"Ah," Nygus said in understanding. "Yeah, I guess it is. You've come up with a solution?"

Stein started to answer, but was interrupted by Justin. "So you knew too? Why has no one talked to me about it?" he asked, indignant.

"Why has no one talked to _me_ about it?" Giriko corrected. "And what's it about anyway?"

He was ignored again.

"It hadn't been decided yet," Nygus said soothingly. "But some staff members and city officials uttered concerns, and I share them."

"But Lord Death has had no problem with how I've handled things so far, and -" Justin began in a heated tone.

"Lord Death has given us his approval," Stein cut him off. "Anyway, that's not up to you to decide. Given your age and your status -"

"Hey you bag of dicks," Giriko roughly barked. "Mind enlightening me?"

The three DWMA members turned to him as one, as if they had just remembered his presence, but after one quick glance Justin resumed staring at Stein. The tall scientist was looking the chainsaw up and down, gauging him. Giriko managed not to bare his teeth, but stiffened anyway.

Stein lit himself a cigarette, and idly blew smoke in Giriko's direction.

"Are you familiar with the concept of the ankle monitor?" he calmly asked.

Giriko sputtered in outrage. _They seriously thought they could...?_ "Oh no, you won't, you asshole!" he roared, fists clenching. He'd never let himself be tracked like some mangy dog!

"So yes," Stein answered in his stead. "See, an ankle monitor is not exactly what we had in mind..." He began rummaging through his coat pockets. "It may not occur to you that you're classified as an extremely dangerous individual, and that as such, it's already a bit of a gamble to let you loose at all..."

"Look, I don't think this is necessary at all, if you'd just listen to me -" Justin intervened, but Stein shushed him with a gesture and went on.

"An ankle monitor is not a sufficient precautionary measure with you," Stein finished, and retrieved the object he had been looking for with a triumphant ' _aha!'_. "So we came up with this." He threw the thing in Giriko's lap.

Giriko's mind blanked.

He vaguely registered a sigh from Nygus. "Ah, I see," she said. "It's not ideal, but I guess it's the best we can do."

"Professor, you've heard my suggestion, we don't _have_ to do this," he heard Justin insist.

"It was a downright stupid suggestion, Justin," Stein answered tiredly. "I know your heart is in the right place, but you lack distance from this special case."

He turned to Giriko again, but Giriko didn't raise his head, kept staring at the object in his lap in mute horror. "In case you were wondering, this device will blow your head off in case of threat or escape," Stein explained. "There's an incorporated tracker, of course, but the main goal is to keep you in check. Got it?"

Giriko slowly looked up from the gleaming collar, searching Justin's gaze. The priest reddened and looked away, expression distinctly unhappy, and it hit Giriko like a punch in the gut. The decision had already been taken. This was really happening.

He opened and closed his mouth like a fish, his gaze scooting from one DWMA member to the next, waiting for someone to drop the ball, to call an end to the joke, to tell him he'd gotten it all wrong. The outrage seemed absurd, disproportionate, too big for him to comprehend. But the stony expressions they presented him left no room for misinterpretation.

"We should maybe give you some time for the idea to sink in," Nygus gently suggested, and that was was set Giriko off, a wave of unadulterated fury crashing over him until his ears started ringing and his vision went blood-red.

He took one look at Stein's bored expression and launched himself forward, roaring chains encircling his right arm in the matter of a heartbeat. Stein jumped back, but he was underestimating Giriko's range and how willing he was to tear his hideous skull to pieces. But a millisecond before the impact glistening steel barred his way, the shock sending sparks flying everywhere. Justin lost no time to retrieve his position and kicked Giriko's feet from under him, sending him toppling backwards. Giriko managed a back-roll and came up on his feet, the pain that flared up in his ankle barely registering in comparison to the white-hot anger that erased all thoughts from his mind. He threw a powerful kick in Justin's direction that the priest managed to block, and lunged for Stein again, but this time the scientist sidestepped and caught him squarely in the jaw with his fist. Giriko crashed, catching himself halfway on the infirmary bed, and before he could scramble up Stein had caught him and shot a pulse of Soul Force straight at his face. It felt like lightning, crackling energy that set all of his nerve endings ablaze with pain. He screamed himself hoarse for what felt like an entire minute, and tasted blood when it finally ceased. He collapsed to the floor, sparkling black spots littering his vision, and before he could come to his bearings there was a knee rammed in the small of his back and his right arm was twisted into a painful arm lock. His left arm, still caught in its sling, was uselessly trapped under his belly. He struggled, snarling and cursing like a wild animal.

"Shut up!" Nygus yelled close to his ears, and she snaked her free arm around his neck, compressing his throat until he had not enough air left to scream. He continued to toss until he almost passed out from the pressure on his airways, and turned limp, his shallow pants the only sound left in the infirmary.

"See, this only proves my point," Stein said from somewhere above him. "We run a town full of students and civilians, we can't afford to have a psychopathic war criminal wandering around without means of control. We already extend him lots of goodwill by letting him live on his own. He'll deal with it."

“No. Fucking. Way,” Giriko bit out, his face pressed against the cold linoleum. It was his first coherent sentence in a while. He was shaking with anger, his mouth full with the coppery taste of blood.

Nygus cursed and readjusted her position on top of him. "This is the more stubborn, pigheaded, ungrateful idiot that I've ever had to take care of," she snapped. "Why did I expect this to go any differently?"

"Well, we can't let him loose unmonitored, but we can't force him to wear that collar, either," Stein stated.

"I'd rather die," Giriko spat.

"That's not an option," was Stein's cold reply.

Justin's head appeared in his field of vision; he was crouching down next to him. "No way we can convince you, Giriko?" he asked with genuine concern. "It's just a collar."

A collar that branded him as a DWMA possession. A collar that made him less than a dog. A collar with a fucking _skull_ on it. Justin, better than anybody, should understand. An abject mixture of betrayal and humiliation twisted Giriko guts, and he jerked his head backward and spat at Justin's face.

Justin was perfectly still for a second, saliva dripping down his elegant nose, his blue eyes like storm clouds. Then he stood up, and his voice was level when he said:

"Well, that settles it, I'd say. Solution two, then, I think it was called?"

 

*

 

It had to be the shittiest cell in the whole DWMA. A neon lamp hung from the low ceiling, casting bluish light on the slightly mouldy walls and the metal cot. The space was barely sufficient to take three steps in any direction. And there was no window. _There was no fucking window._

The steel door closed behind Giriko with a clang, and the sound of the key turning in the lock shot through him like an electrical signal, making his neck hairs stand on end. He pressed his back against the cool metal, and listened as Stein and Justin's footsteps disappeared into the distance. He shut his eyes. Then drew in a breath, and slowly exhaled. He could do this. He could do this.

His ankle was shooting pulses of hot pain up his leg, and he felt equally hot anger burn at the back of his throat. Assholes. Those _fucking_ assholes. He should have known better than to trust a single word from this pack of lying, deceiving bastards, and he banged the back of his head against the door, annoyed at his own stupidity. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been fucked over by the DWMA before. And he had seriously thought he’d get a fair treatment this time round? How fucking naive. Scum, all of them!

And now he was trapped here, and there was no window. Unless he complied to wear that ... that _fucking_ thing, he’d never breath fresh air again. He’d never see the sun again. He was trapped deep within the earth, and he couldn’t leave. He would never be able to leave.

He was overcome by a sensation of nausea and pressed his sound hand against his stomach, digging his nails in. His knees felt jelly-like and he slid down the door pane, landing hard on his butt. His next breath got stuck in his throat. _They want this_ , he thought in a flash of lucidity, _they want you to panic, they want you to break_. _Push it back!_

Had he told Justin he was claustrophobic? He didn't remember, but the mere idea that that information could have been purposely used against him left a taste of ash in his mouth. He tried to focus on his throbbing ankle, on the dull ache in his ribs, on his gut-wrenching scorn, something, anything except the locked door in his back and the lack of window in front of him. He wasn’t trapped, he was outside, and the sky was cloudless and infinite. If he tilted his head towards the ceiling the light shone in warm pink halos through his closed eyelids, like a tiny personal sun, and he could almost believe his own lie. But the smell gave it away, that familiar smell of old stones, of mould and misery, sticking to his nose with every breath.

He did the mistake to open his eyes, and squeezed them tightly shut when the walls seemed to crash down around him. His mind flashed back to the seven flight of stairs he had stumbled down on the way to the cell. How many doors, steps and corridors separated him from freedom? How many tons of stone hovering above his head? Right now he could feel every single one of them weighing down on his chest. He choked, taking big gulps of air that thickened like mortar halfway through his lungs. He was suffocating, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe, _he couldn't breathe_ -

He crumbled, and wished for it to stop.

 

It didn't.

 

*

 

Two days later, he stepped outside the DWMA, the skull-adorned collar enclosing his neck.

 


	12. Fanart for chapter 7 by doodlingclown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The awesome doodlingclown drew some fanart for That Scene from chapter 7 and I love it <3  
> You can find more of their super cute Soul Eater art at [doodlingclown](https://doodlingclown.tumblr.com/) on tumblr

  
  



	13. Drowning

"Miaaaaw."

Giriko looked up from his tuna sandwich to find yellow eyes expectantly staring at him.

"Fuck off, Blair, you ain't getting any," Giriko mumbled.

Blair, in her cat form since BJ wasn't around for her to flirt with, swiftly leaped on the workshop table, licking her chops.

Giriko liked her best this way. Not that she wasn't a pleasant sight as a human, with her mile-long legs and impressive cleavage; but she exuded such a strong aura of sensuality that Giriko tended to think of sex, and when he thought of sex he thought of Justin, and when he thought of Justin...

Anyway, the cat was better, even if it meant defending his lunch against greedy little paws.

Blair tiptoed among the scattered tools and beer cans, and curiously sniffed at a dirty plate before she sat down, eyeing the chainsaw's sandwich with envy. "Why is Giriko not outside?" she meowed. "The weather is nice."

"No, it's not, it's boiling hot," he retorted between two bites. "Why are _you_ not outside?"

"The kittens are at school. Spirit is away. Blair is booooored."

Giriko snorted at the mention of the "kittens"; the cat's protective urges towards the kids who kept her as a pet always amused him. She seemed intent to smother them with motherly love, as well as to take charge of their sexual education in creative and highly inappropriate ways. Poor kids, whoever they might be.

"Play with me!" Blair said, tail wagging excitedly.

"Busy, Blair." Indeed, he had spent the last fifteen minutes morosely staring at the wall. A healthy activity if there was any.

The cat's golden eyes grew liquid with silent pleas, and Giriko sighed and retrieved a treat from his pocket. That always shut her up. Blair happily threw herself at the food, and then chewing sounds were the only thing disrupting the quiet. It was one of the advantages of BJ (whose name actually was "Buttataki Joe"; why he went by that ridiculous nickname no one knew) being away - the workshop was rid of the background gurgle of the coffee machine.

After both of them were done eating the cat leaped down and curled up in Giriko's lap, her weight warm and familiar. He absentmindedly scratched the right spot on her chin to make her purr. The black fur was soft as a feather, and he marvelled at how sensitive the fingers in his left hand had become after the long period of immobility.

The cast had come off three days ago. He had sat in stony silence as Nygus cut it open, valiantly resisting the impulse to claw her face off. The nurse had been much more polite than usual while she showed him stretches for his wrist, even enquiring if he had practised the ankle exercises she had taught him. He hadn't, and hadn't bothered since, either. Why should he, at this point? He had left the infirmary without a single word.

His gaze meandered around the workshop as he tried to estimate how much work was left for the day. Not more than four hours, he guessed. BJ and Giriko had achieved considerable progress during the last month, and a dozen middle-sized Golems were now silently waiting in a corner, ready for use. The Golems had complex behavioral patterns that covered dozens of hypothetical scenarios, and were intelligent enough to pick apart allied and enemy wavelengths. As such, there were some of the most complex creatures Giriko had ever built, and he was quite proud of them. He still hadn't gotten his hands on Enchanter gloves, so he had had to carve in the basic magic manually. But he had explained most of the runes and symbols to BJ along the way, so time had passed faster.

He had kept the workings of the spell language to himself, though. Better not share all of his knowledge, in case they threw him back in the dingy cell if they deemed him replaceable. BJ was alright, but he still belonged to the DWMA - he couldn't be trusted.

Giriko's initial impressions of the man had been proven right. BJ had a peaceful, quiet temper (as long as you didn't get him started on the topic of coffee, on which he had surprisingly fierce opinions), and remained mostly unfazed by Giriko's nastier habits. Even opening his first beer before 10AM didn't earn the chainsaw more than a disapproving frown - but then most of the work Giriko could deal with while drunk or hangover anyway.

BJ also had a habit of humming while working, pleasant rumba tunes that tended to stick in the head for hours, and it was soothing in a bittersweet way. And certainly not because it reminded Giriko of music leaking from headphones - that was a trail of thoughts he had forbidden himself weeks ago.

In other circumstances, Giriko might even have taken a liking to BJ. It wasn't in the chainsaw's habits to make friends, but he always had had people around he considered to be more than mere acquaintances. Persons whose company he could tolerate more than others, whom he felt at ease with, who maybe laughed in a cute way... _Stop right there - these thoughts_ _a_ _ren't allowed, either._

But in the present setting, BJ was a man who obeyed Lord Death. And he was the man who had first brought up the dreaded topic of Golem masks.

After Giriko had finished the first five Golems, BJ had decided to have them wear skull masks: the purpose being recognition value, intimidation, or something of the like. The arguments were probably conclusive, but Giriko hadn't listened past "putting the _Shinigami's face_ on his Golems". Because, no, no, _NO_. No fucking way.

A fight had ensued. Giriko had vehemently refused to place even the tiniest skull on the product of his own mind, of his own hands, and BJ had tried persuasion, flattery, and threats to no avail. The chainsaw wasn't one to lose a contest of stubbornness.

The arguments had grown increasingly heated and Giriko had worked himself into a full blown rage. His annoyance had reached such magnitudes that Stein had dropped by to complain he could feel Giriko's murder intent from the other side of the building, and to recommend some sedatives he had found useful on similar occasions. When after a few more minutes Giriko didn't stop ranting and raving, Stein had very seriously menaced to blow his head off, waving a little remote control right under the chainsaw's nose. That had shut him up.

The dispute had been put on hold, and the Golems in the corner had remained faceless to this day. Giriko should have counted it as a victory, but he didn't. The realization that he had no agency whatsoever in his own workplace had been a bitter pill to swallow. Even here, in this haven of tools and clay and spells, he wasn't free, he wasn't safe. Quitting was no option, and disobedience could mean death. He shouldn't allow himself to forget that.

The all-too-familiar impotent, sickly hatred started to flame up from deep within his guts. _When he had been doing so good today..._ Giriko felt his entire body stiffen, his face growing rigid like a funeral mask. He tried to swallow down the bitter saliva that pooled in his mouth, but his throat felt constricted. He bit down hard on the inside of his cheeks, the sharp pain a welcome distraction, and clenched his fist in the soft cat fur.

Blair's low purring ceased, and the cat looked up, flicking her ears.

"Why is Giriko upset?" she meowed.

"Shut up, Blair, I'm fine," he bit out.

He shot a look at the clock. 2PM - time for the stronger stuff. He hastily downed his remaining beer, and rummaged through the pile of litter at his feet with shaking hands until he located the vodka bottle. The first gulp burned all the way down his throat, the acrid taste of cheap alcohol threatening to etch his tastebuds off; the second warmed him up from hair to toe. Already he could feel the buzz spreading through him, mellowing some of the churning anger in his guts, and he let out a long exhale. Much better. The temptation to cut through the collar and be done with it all receded somewhat.

Blair sat up, claws digging into the chainsaw's coarse jeans. "Then why is Giriko drinking?" she insisted.

Giriko shot her a toothy grin that was, admittedly, more akin to a grimace.

" 'Cause of life, kitty cat," he snarled, and took another swig from the bottle. He stood up abruptly, dropping Blair to the floor, and nudged at her with the tip of his boot when she glared up in outrage.

"Now shoo, I gotta work," he grunted. "Go stalk your kiddies or whatever it is you do when you're not annoying me."

The cat shot him a pained look and padded away, head held high like a tiny fur queen. Giriko huffed in derision. He pocketed the vodka and hobbled towards the metal skeleton he would be coating in clay during the rest of the afternoon. It would be a big guy once it was finished - the Golem's yet bare skull towered at sixteen feet above the ground. Giriko placed his supplies and his booze within reach, climbed up the ladder, and started to apply big swats of clay to the metal structure. Under the combined influence of the repetitive motions and the regular swigs of vodka he soon managed to work himself into a numb haze, the world around him increasingly fuzzy and meaningless. His thoughts drifted away.

The thing was, he could have gotten used to this life. The studio apartment he had been assigned to was small and scarcely furnished, but well lit; and Death City was surprisingly enjoyable. Its cobblestone alleys and the central hill reminded him of Prague, once upon a time - he could almost believe himself in Europe, if it weren't for the Deathbucks around every corner. He could have gotten used to the DWMA looming above the roofs when he looked up. He could have gotten used to constricting work schedules and to American beer. Hell, he could even have gotten used to the scorching desert heat!

If it weren't for that damn collar. That damn, fucking _collar_.

Every time he started to forget his situation, every time he found a semblance of relaxation, of ease, there would be a motion, a breeze, a tug at his neck, and he'd be aware of the weight of metal again.

He felt it all the time. He felt it digging in his neck when he laid down to sleep. He felt it pressing against his palm when he rested his head in his hand to watch TV. He felt it choking him when he swallowed. He felt the metal heating in the sun, and freezing against his skin when he stumbled home in the wee hours of the morning. It was there all the time, a solid, inescapable reminder of his condition. And it was driving him crazy.

 _Not so different, you and I_ , he mused as he slapped a chunk of clay on what would soon be the Golem's face. _Trapped in patterns we didn't choose, ordered around by scum that doesn't give a rat's ass about us. Only you don't know it, you lucky bastard_.

He should have kept to whiskey, he thought belatedly - vodka made him melancholic. Better drink some more, dull it down. Thank fuck it wasn't hard to find alcohol whenever he needed it. Death City had more shady bars than one could expect in a town of that size, where he fit right in amidst the ragtag clientele; and there was a 24/7 grocery store down the street for the rest of the time. He could go on for days without ever being really sober, probably the reason why he was still alive. Hopelessness didn't pain as much with the right amount of ethanol.

But his permanently inebriated state meant it was harder to keep the forbidden thoughts at bay, and the stringy-ass priest kept creeping upon his mind at unexpected times. He despised it. Thinking of Justin was a poisonous mix of longing, hurt and hatred, to be avoided at all costs. He hoped he never had to see that pale freckled face again.

Still, when he started humming under his breath, it sounded suspiciously like electro-swing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Justin'S POV


	14. Burning

Justin switched to another song. Again.

Somehow today music wouldn't work. Every song bored him after a few seconds, either too familiar or not fitting his mood, no melody managing to soothe that pestering impatience he felt strumming at the back of his mind. Usually he could relax into the beats and let the tunes lull him like waves. But right now they just grated on his nerves.

He angrily sighed and tossed his headphones on the desk. The library was plunged in thick, oppressive silence all of a sudden, and he swallowed uneasily. _Never mind that_ , he told himself. He could deal with the lack of sound for once.

Anyway, what he should rather focus on was that tedious Greek paper he couldn't bring his mind around. Justin propped his head on his hand and started to read the same sentence for the fourth time in a row, the characters dancing in front of his eyes without properly aligning to words. He scribbled a question mark in the margin - the text was already littered with them.

Ancient Greek was so hard. Why did each word have to mean fifteen different things? He was only 50% confident he had gotten the signification of the first paragraph right, despite double-checking with other translations. Parts of him were glad that civilization had moved on to Latin soon after; at least the alphabet wasn't that complicated.

He vaguely wondered if Giriko spoke ancient Greek. What languages had been around 800 years ago? And would his current form remember them? For a minute he entertained the mental image of the chainsaw wearing a venerable graduate cap, declaiming swearwords in Greek, Hebrew and Latin.

Then it was in English Giriko was swearing, curses Justin remembered all too well. _Bastard. Scum. Filthy traitorous piece of shit_ , the chainsaw's grating voice snarled. He had meant every word.

Justin shook himself, willing the memory away. He looked down at the angry frown he had carelessly doodled in the margin, and sighed.

Giriko had worn the same frown when Justin went to visit the Golem workshop two weeks ago. At least, in the split second before the chainsaw had turned away, not deigning to spare Justin a further glance.

Justin had went there to justify himself, to try and explain that the surveillance collar hadn't been _his_ idea, that he had actually actively protested against it. He had went to see Giriko despite having been spit on in the face, for Lord's sake! But the chainsaw hadn't listened to a single word, had silently wandered off in the depths of the workshop, and ordered a Golem to chase Justin away when he had kept talking. It had felt like a slap to the face.

Justin could have torn the Golem to pieces, of course, had been very tempted to do so for a few seconds - but then he had left instead, seething with annoyance and hurt pride.

It wasn't fair! He had had nothing to apologize for in the first place, and then the chainsaw thought he could send him away like some kind of nuisance? He had tried his best! It wasn't his fault that the Academy deemed Giriko a menace. And it was just a simple collar, in the end! Not so different from the necklace Giriko was wearing anyway. Just because he couldn't suck it up and let go of his resentment towards the DWMA, wasn't a reason to completely ignore Justin. He thought they had some kind of understanding!

The few missions Justin had took on since hadn't helped to clear his mood, either. The kishin had been deemed too dangerous for students, but they were still far below the Death Scythe's pay grade. One had been too slow, the other too predictable, the last one he had ambushed from the rear before it could put up a fight. Not a single one had presented a real challenge. Tremendously boring.

He had looked forward to spar with the chainsaw when the latter was back on his feet, but that he could cross of his list, regarding the current situation. Maybe he could coax Giriko to a fight if he teased him enough?...

"That would go over well", he mumbled to himself, voice heavy with irony. New material for his Bad Ideas list.

He added droopy eyes below the angry eyebrows, but didn't quite manage to render the heat Giriko's hazel gaze always seemed to carry, the one that so often sparked off a warm rush of response under Justin's skin. That heat he longed to feel right now.

Justin fiddled with his pen and drummed an increasingly hectic beat on the wooden desk. He tried to bring himself to read his text again, but couldn't remember what it was about in the first place. What was the point of his research again? He squirmed in his chair, trying to find a comfortable position, but to no avail. His mind kept sending him flashes of Giriko's face, of Giriko's voice - of the fear that had flared up in his eyes before the cell's door fell shut.

When had he started caring so much about that aggressive wreck of a man? Compassion wasn't in his nature, hadn't been since he decided to embrace the faith, all those years ago. Lord Death he gave his all, the rest of the world he maintained a careful distance to. He wished for all beings to have peaceful lives and deaths, of course; but for a full communion with the Lord, it was necessary to let go of cumbersome earthly tethers. In the protective mantel of his music, nothing mattered but the Lord's will.

But then Giriko had crashed into his life like a boulder in a pond. And the ripples didn't seem to abate.

Justin gave up on his text and completed his little sketch instead: wild hair, a moody pout, earrings, a narrow jaw. The face of a man who was both forthright and opaque, one moment absurdly easy to read, and then unpredictable the next - a puzzle Justin hadn't yet been able to fully crack. The chainsaw was intriguing. Challenging. And ... well, yes, attractive too.

The priest toyed with his pencil some more and drew the outline of Giriko's muscular shoulders. After a second of hesitation, he added twin barbell piercings on the chest, and immediately felt heat flare up in his cheeks. _Oh Lord_. Now even _thinking_ about those stupid piercings turned him on! He cringed at his own reaction, and angrily crossed out the entire sketch. That infatuation was getting _ridiculous_.

He slumped down on the desk with a sigh, resting his chin on his arms. _Maybe I just need to get laid_ , he grumpily thought. Sexual activity was healthy, wasn't it? ' _A sound soul dwells within a sound body_ ' after all. Then he'd retrieve his serenity. Had worked before.

Oh, but who was he kidding? This wasn't like previous crushes. He had been attracted to a few guys in the past, had even had some interesting experiences here and there, but this was different. This was much worse.

After a chaotic childhood in which foster family after foster family, each in turn fooled by his angelic looks, had passed him around like a card in an ongoing trading game, Justin had worked hard to build himself a life in which steadiness was key. His faith was the background thrum, the one constant he could always rely on, his music the beat that gave rhythm to his existence, his activity as a professional Demon Weapon provided the sharp breakdowns that gave release to his darker urges. He cultivated casual friendships with his colleagues, sometimes casual sex with handsome men, but that was it, there was no need for anything more, all of his emotional needs were fulfilled.

But then, Giriko.

Everything about Giriko gnawed at Justin's self-control, and he didn't even know why. Was it the hint of danger, of something ravenous and uncontrollable that lurked behind the chainsaw's gaze? Was it the stubborn fierceness with which he argued and defended his positions? Was it the raw pleasure Justin took in pushing him over the edge, in triggering fury and passion?

Whatever it was, it was bad news. Justin kept searching and avoiding this feeling, as if he was a funambulist who couldn't tell if he craved or feared the fall. And now that Giriko was out of his sight after months of proximity, that he would have had the perfect opportunity to finally let go of this unhealthy obsession and regain control of his mind, of his life, he still went on thinking about that man. Like a tooth gap he couldn’t stop prodding with his tongue.

He didn't know what he should do about it. He didn't know _if_ he should do something about it. He had no idea how to solve the situation, and felt stupid and nervous and ridiculous.

 _That's how the mighty Executioner ends_ , he thought gloomily. _Defeated by his libido._

__

What the hell was _wrong_ with him?

__

*

__

Later that day he was sitting on his yoga mat, trying and failing to meditate, when his cellphone rang. An unknown number. He swiftly picked up.

__

"Death Scythe Law?"

__

"Hello Justin," said a warm, deep voice. "Buttataki Joe here. Are you busy tonight?"

__

"No, no obligations," Justin answered, intrigued. "What is it?"

__

There was a second of silence on the other end of the phone. “Giriko has been missing for the last few days; I’d like you to find him.”

__


	15. Turmoil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this story is slowly but steadily veering towards the Explicit rating; we're not entirely there yet, but if adult content is something that bothers you, I (sadly) suggest that this is where we part ways. If not, hooray! Stay with me for further trashy adventures! And let me know what you think of them, in the comments or on Tumblr (randomishnickname.tumblr.com), I'd be extremely happy to chat with you.  
> Also, be warned that the following chapter isn't glamorous.

It was one of those foggy Death City nights. Thick wafts of mist curled along the cobblestone streets, plunging every nook and corner into deep shadows, and fraying into long ribbons in the yellow light cones of the street lamps. The heat of the day was long forgotten, as if soaked up by the desert sand, and the moon was a pale shape in the sky, its mad grin concealed behind layers of haze.

Justin's footsteps echoed loudly in the silent streets, and in the damp night air the sound took on an ominous, sinister quality, like the beats of some ancient war drum. The young man ran a nervous thumb over the shell of his ear - he missed the reassuring presence of his headphones. But for this special kind of hunt he needed all of his senses at the ready.

Giriko's tracker had led him to the old, northern quarter of Death City, not far off the priest's own apartment. The device was only precise to half a mile, which, in this maze of tortuous alleys and badly lit cul-de-sac, wasn't nearly precise enough. An hour of search had already passed, and Justin was slowly getting sick of running in circles and peering into stinking, smoky bars without finding any clues to the chainsaw's location. An anxious foreboding festered at the back of his mind.

Giriko had last been sighted three days ago. According to the tracker he had honored the strict instruction to stay in the city, but there were still lots of damages he could do without leaving the town. Even if Justin had grown accustomed to, and maybe somewhat fond of, the chainsaw's volatile temper, he knew better than to underestimate what threat Giriko could pose to untrained civilians or cocky students. It was unexpected enough that no police station had called the DWMA to report a murderous rampage spree yet; no need to push that luck by letting Giriko on the loose any further. Maybe Justin could still bring the chainsaw in without any incident, and that elopement would remain free of consequences.

No sooner had the priest mulled that thought over than shouts rose in the distance. _Oh Lord_. Too late, then. He repressed a sigh, and broke into a light jog in the direction of the noise. He turned left into a narrow impasse he must have overlooked earlier, and came to a halt in front of a shabby door. Someone had painted the words "The Bald Coyote" on the lintel in white, flaky paint. Dark curtains prevented passerby from looking into the pub, but the shouts were clearly coming from the inside, raucous and unhinged now that the priest was so close. And amidst the shouts...

The tell-tale roar of a chainsaw.

 _Found you_.

Justin closed his eyes and took a few seconds to recollect himself, fighting back little jitters of anticipation. He brought his skull cross to his lips, the gesture familiar and soothing. "Oh Lord of Death, grant me strength," he murmured.

The familiar, dark wave rose within him as he called up the steel that ran in his veins, let it fill him up until his blades were in his reach, one hairbreadth beneath the skin, and when he opened his eyes again he felt cool and collected. Ready.

He took a deep breath, and threw open the door.

A billow of warm, muggy air hit his nose, heavy with the stench of liquor and sweat. Justin barged in and adopted a fighting stance, swiftly surveying the surroundings.

The interior of the pub was a study in destruction. The grimy floor was littered with shards, and it seemed that not a single piece of furniture had been left unharmed. Most chairs were missing their legs, which had found new vocations as clubs in the hands of the dozen of persons gathered in the most distant corner of the room, facing something Justin couldn't see. Not only the furniture bore traces of fighting: one man laid screaming on the floor, clutching his leg, scarlet runnels bubbling out from beneath his fingers; another was wielding a broken bottle, gurgling invectives as his mouth filled with blood from his smashed nose. The tumult - yells, hoots, splintering wood - was deafening, but Justin could still make out the grinding noise of the chainsaw. _So close_.

The priest pushed his way through the crowd, stepping over a stuffed coyote and a puddle of vomit, and barely dodged an aggressively wagged chair leg. He bypassed a massive woman who was blocking his view, and then he could finally make out Giriko's tall frame, just in time to see the chainsaw send a man toppling backwards with one nasty kick. Giriko leaned back into the corner, head hanging low, one leg raised and sheeted in a silvery blur of blades. A bottle exploded against the wall an inch away from his face, but he didn't so much as twitch.

It was obvious that the crowd was out for the chainsaw's blood - Justin could read fear and excitation in the bar patron's faces as they fired each other up:

"Kill the bastard -"

"Go at him, Greg!"

"Watch out, his fuckin' leg -"

Most were armed with leg chairs, but one woman wielded a halberd. It looked dangerous, even if the Demon Weapon hadn't managed a full transformation - a human arm awkwardly hung from the shaft. When the Meister brought down the sharp blade towards Giriko unprotected face, Justin finally intervened. Quick as lightning, he jumped in to position himself between the crowd and Giriko, and deflected the halberd strike. His guillotine blades, deployed to their full length in a flashy display, shrilled in the shock of steel against steel.

"THIS CEASES NOW!" the priest bellowed at maximum volume.

Stunned silence followed his command, only broken by the whimpers of the wounded man and the buzzing of Giriko's chainsaw. The young man extended one arm towards the crowd, one towards Giriko in an imperious gesture, and maintained a theatrical pause until he was sure to have everyone's attention. He couldn't be certain to be recognized as a Death Scythe, but his skull insignia and his clear mastery of partial transformation should be enough to deter idiotic bravado. His gaze swept over the assembly, filled with cold warning.

"Giriko," he called, eyes on the crowd, but on the lookout for movement in his peripheral vision, ready to jump the second the chainsaw attacked. "Stop it."

After a few seconds, the chainsaw noise simply ... ceased. No cursing. No yelling. No attack.

Merely silence.

Incredulous, Justin tore his gaze away from the pugnacious patrons, who appeared to be half-annoyed, half-relieved he took charge of the situation, to take a proper look at the chainsaw. He felt his stomach clench.

Giriko looked like death warmed over. His features, covered in thick stubble, were gaunter than usual; his skin had a greyish, pasty quality to it, and his hair was greasy. Blood was running from a gash above his eyebrow, and one bruise augured a mean black eye, but elsewise he appeared unharmed.

The chainsaw was wearing his old fur-trimmed jacket, that had survived the landmine explosion but was charred all over, and a dirty wife-beater. His entire posture was so limp - drooped head and slouched shoulders, a puppet with cut strings - that Justin feared for a moment he had passed out; but then he looked up and their gazes locked.

It felt like a physical impact.

Under the weight of those hazel eyes Justin was sucked in the moment, was suddenly _there_ in a way he hadn't before. The world sharpened as an almost painful over-awareness settled in, random tidbits of sensation - the friction of cloth against his skin, the bead of sweat trickling behind his ear - magnified to full extent. He could almost perceive the heat Giriko's body gave away, felt a singeing fire ignite in his guts in response.

 _Oh Lord_ , he told himself. _It's gotten worse._ And then: _Oh Lord - he's hideously drunk_.

Justin returned Giriko's bleary gaze for a second, and then abruptly turned away, heart punching a mad rhythm in his chest. He inwardly shook himself, willing the adrenaline to die down.

"Does someone care to explain what is going on here?" he asked the crowd, and was relieved to find his voice perfectly poised.

The patrons exchanged glances and murmurs, until the man with the smashed nose stomped to the front.

"That - that _psycho_ just punched me in the face, sir!" he said with a distinct twang to his voice, gesturing angrily at Giriko. "I was just minding my own business, and then that fucker came along and started shit!"

"Unprovoked?" Justin asked.

"Yeah! I mean, I, I, ghlbl," - the man spat a thick gobble of blood to the floor - "I just asked what that thing on his neck was, and he stood up and fucking punched me!" Justin felt a sudden, irrational bout of nausea hit in. _The collar. Oh Lord._

Broken-nose guy sniffed, shooting Giriko a dark look. "A luck my chums got my back, or he would have killed me, for sure!"

The other patrons nodded their approval, all talking at once.

"Yeah, just like he said!"

"Yeah!"

"It's that freak's fault!"

Then a commotion ran through the crowd as Giriko growled and stirred. Justin spun on his heels, ready to block a strike, but the chainsaw merely tilted his head, considering the priest through bloodshot eyes. There was a second of incongruous silence, then Giriko sluggishly extended two fingers and poked the priest in the chest. Justin's skin flared up with little pinpricks of heat, an almost Pavlovian response.

"You..." Giriko grunted, words slurred to unintelligibility, and poked Justin again. "Whatcha ... whazzaya doin'..." He broke off in the middle of the sentence and frowned, gaze darkening. Then in one fast motion he grabbed Justin's face and shoved, hard enough to send the priest stumbling backwards. Justin collided with the broad lady, and was thankfully caught before he could slip and make a complete fool of himself. There were a few exclamations of surprise and the halberd-wielding Meister stepped forward, a murderous gleam in her eye.

"Stand back!" Justin shouted in her direction. He struggled to come to his feet without groping his well-endowed rescuer, muttering embarrassed excuses, but the woman chuckled. She appeared very entertained.

Giriko had elbowed his way through half of the room already and Justin followed before the crowd could close up on him. He conciliatorily raised his hands and made up some hasty explanations, trying to gather up every ounce of authority he had left after everyone had seen him being tossed aside like a rag doll. "Let him through, and call an ambulance for that man over there - you can tell the medics it's an internal DWMA matter, just drop the name Justin Law - the situation is under control, please don't interfere - "

"Who is that guy?" Broken-nose guy barked. "What's the DWMA got to do with him?"

"Yeah!" A few other patrons chimed in. "Yeah, who's that?"

"I have no authority to disclose the exact nature of our ... association ... only that he needs to remain unharmed," Justin started, painfully aware of the shift in atmosphere. The conversation was taking a very unfavorable turn.

The Halberd Meister looked thunderstruck. "Wait, you're not telling us that crazy works for the DWMA, are you?"

Crap. So there was one person in the room sharp or sober enough to draw clever conclusions. Justin put on his best public relations voice, checking on Giriko's movements over his shoulder.

"That's not quite a - it's a ... complicated issue, and none of this can be publicly discussed -"

Wrong answer. The crowd erupted in scandalized outcries, and Justin began to reevaluate the chances of the situation being solved without bloodshed. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Giriko grab a bottle of liquor from behind the counter and make his way to the entrance; but then an old, pot-bellied man slammed the front door shut and engaged the lock.

"No no no no no," the man eructed, almost foaming at the mouth. "You stay here until I see the money for my fuckin' pub you fuckin' _trashed_ , you disgusting piece of _shit_!"

Giriko didn't slow down. The fat pub owner charged headfirst with an angry war cry, but the chainsaw merely sidestepped him like a toreador, grabbing a wrist and using the man's momentum to fling him into the crowd. There were more outcries as a few people fell like bowling pins.

Then Giriko raised a leg, and kicked the front door out of its hinges.

The entire pub flinched as one when the door hit the pavement with a resounding crash. Unbothered, the chainsaw uncorked the liquor bottle with his teeth, spat the cork away and stepped outside. He took a deep swig, and disappeared into the night.

Justin used the crowd's distraction to make an exit, too.

"Take care of the wounded man over there!" he called on his way out. "Bill the DWMA for the pub! And have a nice evening!"

He left the pub with tremendous relief.

*

After the sauna-like atmosphere of the Bald Coyote the cool night air felt impossibly refreshing. Justin took a greedy lungful, feeling as if he could breath properly for the first time in half an hour. He casted an anxious look down the street, fearful the chainsaw would have skated away already, but Giriko was still in sight.

The priest took a second to scrub his hands over his faces, sighing. What a disaster. He had no idea how to salvage the situation after an incident like this. What if they decided to put Giriko in prison again? Would the chainsaw bear losing his freedom a second time? Could Justin convince the rest of the staff to give him another chance? The evening had really took the wrong turn possible. And when he had hoped it would help him clear his head!

But, priorities. First Justin had to bring the chainsaw somewhere he couldn't cause any more mayhem.

After checking that no pub patron had followed them, Justin jogged to catch up with Giriko. He noticed, surprised, that the chainsaw was limping quite heavily. Wasn't his ankle supposed to have healed by now? It had been almost six weeks since his release from the infirmary, long enough to recover properly. But the man at his side, pale and battered and weary, looked nowhere near peak health.

Justin adjusted his gait to match Giriko's slow one and took a steadying breath. "So, what the heck was that?" he calmly asked.

The chainsaw gave him a dark side eye, and muttered something that very remotely sounded like "fuck off". He was cradling the bottle of liquor close to his chest, his other hand burrowed deep in the pocket of his jeans, and stubbornly shuffled down the street without any apparent goal - there were headed east, where there was only desert. Justin doubted Giriko could find his way back home anyway, in that state.

"Where are you going?" the priest still asked.

No reaction.

"You've got no clue, do you?"

A vague motion that could pass as a shrug.

"How typical," Justin sneered, purposely cool and condescending. But to his frustration, it didn't get a raise out of the chainsaw, either.

Giriko's muteness was unnerving. Justin had come prepared for a fight, an argument, some kind of clash; and now he had to play drunk-sitter to the completely wasted chainsaw. The tension Justin had accumulated over the course of the evening threatened to boil over like milk left on the stove.

The priest tapped a nervous rhythm on his thigh. "What am I going to do with you?" he pondered out loud.

Again, only silence greeted him.

It was cooler now. The fog had lifted, the clouds parted, and the moon grinned down in their direction, its enormous teeth bright with blood.

They went on like that for half an hour, walking without aim with the city dark and silent around them: Giriko hobbling at a snail's pace while downing liquor with the regularity of a metronome, Justin striding at his side, frantically thinking.

At Giriko's current speed they'd need two hours to make their way to the DWMA building (and Justin shuddered at the thought of getting a drunk up those steps), even longer to reach the chainsaw's apartment. Half an eternity, and that was if Giriko managed to keep up despite the poison he seemed intent to continue ingesting. Of course there was the option to call someone to pick them up; but Justin feared to involve the rest of the staff. He could already picture Nygus' _I-told-you-so_ look all too well, and Stein ... who knew what Stein would do. The man was many things, but certainly not merciful. No, there had to be a way Justin could explain the Bald Coyote's mess without worsening Giriko's situation - he just needed some time to think it over.

He had toyed with the thought of running home to fetch his dune buggy; but by the time he'd be back Giriko would have run off who knows where, and Justin would have to start searching all over again.

But then a familiar crossroad came into sight, and an inane idea sprang fully formed into Justin's mind. He considered it for a few seconds, marveled at its abysmal stupidity, and decided to give it a go.

"That way," he told the chainsaw, and tugged at his sleeve to steer him to the left. Giriko shook him off with a growl, but complied, and they veered into the intended street.

They walked down the road for a while, a distance that Justin usually covered within five minutes, but for which they needed almost twenty: the chainsaw had begun to stop dead in his tracks now and then. He stood there, eyes closed, swaying like reed in the wind, as if he had fallen asleep on his feet. Each time it took considerable amounts of coaxing to get him to move again. Justin's patience was worn thin.

"Come on, we're almost there, it's just a bit further, just _move_ ," he gritted out for what felt like the umpteenth time. He had given up on trying to drag Giriko forward after the latter took a swing at him with the brandy bottle, and only the young man's quick reflexes spared him a hit. Justin's apartment building stood a mere hundred yards away, almost within reach, but the chainsaw was resting his head against a wall and hadn't been reacting at all anymore. The priest wanted to pull his hair out in frustration.

"Come _on_!" he insisted.

Giriko grunted, but finally stirred, and took a few staggering steps, in the right direction.

"Yeeees," Justin silently mouthed. He refrained the urge to jump in joy. This time they managed it as far as the front door of the building. The priest extended an arm to stop Giriko from walking by, and the chainsaw shot him a clouded, confused look. Justin's heart squeezed in a mixture of pity and anguish. He looked so messed up. How had it come to this? Justin would have helped, if he had known it was this bad. _But I didn't bother to check,_ he recognized _. I couldn't let go of my pride long enough to make sure he was OK._

"Look, Giriko," he said, careful to speak slowly and clearly. "You're too drunk to walk home. You can spend the night here, at my place. Do you understand?"

After a few seconds, the chainsaw gave a jerky nod. Whether he was clear enough to comprehend the offer, Justin couldn't tell. He'd just have to hope this was actual consent. He opened the door and ushered Giriko inside without turning on the electric light, trusting the moon to light their steps.

Giriko pushed him aside, but entered the building in his stead with no protest, and stumbled up the first flight of stairs. It looked more like a controlled fall than an actual ascent - his limp had only grown worse in the course of the last hour. Justin's hands hovered near his elbow, but he didn't dare to touch, afraid it might trigger another violent reaction.

They made it to the priest's door. Justin unlocked it, stepped aside to let Giriko in, and the door silently closed on them. Justin breathed a sigh of relief, feeling parts of the evening's tension drain from his shoulders. They were safe from further catastrophes, for now.

He turned around and watched as Giriko took in the tidy hallway. It was almost surreal to witness the eerily quiet chainsaw standing here, in Justin's own apartment. Not a single scenario his overactive brain had put together since he met Giriko matched the bizarreness of the present one.

Justin cleared his throat. "Could you, ehm, take off your shoes, please?" The little old lady from the ground floor always complained about footsteps disturbing her sleep.

Giriko did something weird with his eyes, like an aborted eye roll, but leaned his back against a wall and did indeed try to take off his heavy boots. Since he didn't bother to unlace them, the whole endeavor seemed doomed from the start, but he stubbornly stomped on the heels and wriggled his feet until he managed to loosen them. Then he kicked out.

A boot whizzed past the priest's ear and crashed through the hall window with a shrill clatter, sending shards flying around.

Justin stared at the hole in his window, aghast, then back at Giriko, who was removing his other shoe with focus, perfectly oblivious to the destruction he had caused. That had been a perfectly fine window! Justin firmly shut his eyes and massaged his temples with two fingers. _Calm down,_ he repeated like a mantra. _Calm down. This is of no importance. Calm down._

He opened his eyes and found Giriko again drinking that awful brandy, and felt a flash of annoyance. Wasn't he near alcohol poisoning already? It was awful to witness him poison himself. Justin stepped forward and tugged at the half-empty bottle, trying to pry it out of the chainsaw's fingers.

"Come on, let go of that, you've drunk more than enough -" Justin insisted, and tugged some more.

The bottle slipped from Giriko's loose grip and shattered on the floor, adding to the mess of shards. Brandy spilled everywhere.

Giriko dumbly looked down at the puddle of alcohol soaking his socks. Then his gaze slowly moved up, and met Justin's.

 _"Uh oh_ " was the only thought that crossed the young man's mind when he saw the storm brewing on the chainsaw's face. In a sudden blur of motion, Giriko hoisted him up by his robe's collar, took two steps forward and slammed him into the nearest wall, so hard all air escaped the priest's lungs.

Justin wheezed. He instinctively started pedaling in thin air to find a footing, but he was dangling from Giriko's bruising grip, an inch or two about the floor. The chainsaw's face was tilted up in his direction, teeth bared in a feral snarl, the alcohol so heavy on his breath the priest's eyes began to water. Giriko was throwing his entire weight behind the hold, knuckles digging into the priest's collarbones, elbows pressing into his upper arms and effectively hindering movement.

Justin was so surprised he didn't try to move anyway. He could have kneed Giriko in the groin, or kicked his kneecap in, or drew out his guillotine blades - there were a lot of things one could do to incapacitate an angry drunkard -; but he felt paralyzed, overwhelmed by the sudden proximity and Giriko's breath hot on his neck. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but the chainsaw lowly growled in warning, and there was something in his gaze, a blind fury of the kind that couldn't be reasoned with, that had Justin abruptly shut his mouth. The next second stretched into eternity, Justin's mind entirely blank safe for heated hazel eyes; then Giriko bowed his head, and bit down hard on the junction between the priest's shoulder and neck.

Pain flared up, violent and instantaneous.

Justin gasped in shock. Tendrils of fire seemed to radiate from his shoulder as the sharp teeth sank deeper into his flesh. The sensation was impossibly intense, parts of his brain going into overdrive at the feeling of _too hard, too much_ \- he felt as if his eyes would bulge out of their sockets. He clutched at Giriko's jacket, tense like a bow, way too lost to the sensation to think of breaking away. Was it pain, was it pleasure? Who knew, who cared. He was a brazier in human form, an amalgam of nerve endings set ablaze, and all that mattered was that he _burned, burned, burned_ -

The pressure on his neck increased, and for a crazy second Justin thought Giriko was going to rip his flesh out. But then the chainsaw let him go entirely and stepped back instead.

Justin's feet came in contact with the floor and he slid down the wall on wobbling knees, landing on his butt. The bite area on his neck throbbed like molten lava, and his hand darted out to check its state, fingers lingering over the indentations in his skin. He looked up to see Giriko stumble down the corridor, haphazardly throwing doors open. The chainsaw eventually found the bathroom, and a few seconds later violent retching noises could be heard.

Justin let his head fall back against the wall and numbly stared at the ceiling, fingertips resting on his neck. His skin felt tense and prickling all over, halfway between goosebumps and Indian burn. He slowly exhaled, and pressed down on the teeth marks. Fresh pain rushed through him like an adrenaline shot and called up a full-body shiver. He barely repressed a moan.

He didn't need to look down to know he was achingly hard, and abruptly tore his fingers away from his neck. This wasn't right. It had to stop. He slumped forward, resting his head between trembling hands. He was losing control. Lord, he had already _completely_ lost control. He had slipped and fallen down the rabbit hole, and he kept falling and falling.

Had he finally reached the bottom?

*

Later, when the floor was mopped, the shards swiped up, and the window taped shut with cardboard, Justin cautiously peeked into the bathroom to check on Giriko, and wrinkled his nose at the acrid stench of vomit. The chainsaw was sprawled face-first on the bathroom carpet, one arm slung across the toilet bowl, soundly passed out.

Justin crouched down next to him, and watched him in silence for a while. He observed the up-and-down of Giriko's chest until he was certain the man was breathing properly, then carefully took hold of the toilet-hugging arm and placed it in a more comfortable position. Giriko didn't stir. Justin then extended thumb and index finger and placed them on the chainsaw's jugular, just beneath the cold metal collar. The pulse was regular, the skin warm and soft.

The priest moved his thumb in a gentle caress, feeling his own pulse mingle with the steady rushes of Giriko's blood. And, beneath his own skin, the steel of his blades, always there, always ready. He felt cold, distant.

 _This could all end now_ , a voice said at the back of his mind. A mere statement. _There would be no pain. He wouldn't even wake up._

Justin ever-so-slightly tightened his delicate hold.

 _It would be so easy_ , the dark voice remarked. _A problem to be rid off. A threat to order removed._

The scene played out in front of Justin's inner eye, clear and precise like a medical record. His razor-sharp blades shooting out of his palm. The little snapping sound they'd make when they'd cleanly slice through the spinal cord. Blood flooding his hand and soaking the carpet.

His life back in his control.

He slowly breathed out through his mouth, and stood up, giving himself an inner shake. _When I liquidate someone, it's always upfront,_ he reminded himself _._ He firmly pushed the dark, cold impulse to the back of his consciousness where it belonged.

Old memories of playground incidents, of frightened caretakers and upset counselors flashed through his mind. Only the DWMA had ever been interested in that part of him, had taught him how to canalize it, gave it a room and a laudable purpose. He wasn't about to give up on years of training for selfish reasons.

He shot the man on his carpet a long, thoughtful look, and left the bathroom.

He had phone calls to make.


	16. Confrontation

"Oh _fuuuuuck_."

Giriko spat out the carpet fringes he had been munching on, and rolled on his back with the grace of a stranded whale. His face scrunched up when the floor beneath him rocked. Not sober yet, then. He felt horrible.

He brought his hands up to rub over his face, and one eye throbbed at the contact, a painful reminder of the last night. Oh, right. That three day long drinking binge. A bar fight. And then ... Justin?

His gaze drifted down. His legs were entangled in a fluffy quilt. And there were a glass of water and a vitamin bottle placed near his elbow.

Weird.

He fumbled until he took hold of the water and managed to drink most of it without spilling it down his front, then took a look at the pills. There was a note taped to the lid, and, disturbingly enough, he knew that neat handwriting. _Help yourself to what you need_ , it read. _Back at 10 AM - JL._

He slumped down with a groan, throwing an arm over his eyes to shield them from the daylight. _Fuck, I'm such a champ_ , he thought. How had he managed to land himself in _Justin Law'_ s bathroom of all places?

He remained stretched out on the floor for a few minutes, thoughts spinning disorderly; then he scrambled to his feet, ignoring the wobbly turmoil in his stomach. His ankle was stiff and hurt - nothing new there.

The bathroom around him was tiled a pale turquoise, and felt almost aseptically clean. The color didn't flatter his complexion, Giriko vaguely thought while casting a glance in the mirror. He looked like shit. He scrubbed at the smears of dried blood on his face, unenthused, but only managed to smudge them farther.

The right eye was swollen and had taken on an interesting purple hue. He tried to remember which one of the bar patrons had managed to lay one on him, but came up empty. The fight was a distant blur, only Justin's voice - Justin calling his name - somewhat clear amidst the muddle.

He locked gazes with his reflection for a while, absently marveling how well he fit the image of an alcoholic train wreck. How old was this body again? He didn't know, had stopped keeping tracks of this kind of details some centuries ago. Old enough to experience how shitty the aftermath of three days of booze-up was, apparently. Giriko shrugged it off - good training for his liver. There was more to come its way.

He raised a hand to massage his sore neck, and caught a whiff of his own stench. The nauseating mix of rancid sweat, vomit and booze made him grimace. _Ugh_.

There was a stack of towels and an inviting shower, so after a second of hesitation he locked the door, clumsily stripped - even his socks reeked of brandy, what the hell - and entered the shower cubicle. It was as scantily equipped with paraphernalia as the rest of the room, a single bottle of shower gel standing by its lonesome on the shelf. Giriko splayed one hand against the cool tiles to steady himself while the water heated, feeling groggy.

He popped open the shower gel's cap, and inhaled deeply when the scent hit his nose.

It was the priest's scent, that clean, fresh fragrance one could sometimes perceive beneath the more penetrating notes of incense, and that always reminded him of rainy forests for some reason. It felt odd lathering himself up with it, shrouding himself in that familiar smell that clung to his wet skin. Almost indecent. He savored the faint feeling of wrongness for a few seconds before rinsing off the foam.

A few emotions reared their traitorous heads like a pit of a hissing snakes, pushed to get to the forefront of his consciousness. But he was experienced at corking them up, back into that unverbalized space in which anger, fear and desire melted to one chaotic blend. It had been his modus operandi for centuries, hadn't it? If there was an award for emotional repression, he'd be top tier for sure.

He toweled himself dry and started to dress up, but the idea of putting his malodorous shirt back on made his skin crawl. He tilted his head in consideration. There was no trash can in sight, so he crumpled his wifebeater and socks to a bale, opened the window and threw them out without further ado. Waste disposal, medieval styles. He nodded, satisfied, and donned his jacket bare-chested.

Now, to get the fuck out of here.

*

He found himself exploring the rest of the apartment first, embarrassingly curious about the place in which Justin spent his life. But it felt as clean and empty as the bathroom had, impersonal like a hotel room. No photographs on the walls, no personal belongings strewn around, none of the little telltale signs of daily activity a single's household should bear. Giriko was left wondering if the priest lived here at all, or if it was only some sort of temporary residence.

He cast a look inside the bedroom - orderly desk, a skull cross above the narrow bed -, then down the hallway - a window was taped shut with cardboard, one of Giriko's boots standing a guilty vigil beneath it -, before he entered the spacious living-room. Out of all the other rooms this one had the most lived-in flair, despite the sterile look of the white walls. A big stereo system was mounted where a TV would usually stand, next to it a shelf full of music albums, and, oddly enough, DJ-turntables. Giriko absentmindedly nudged one of the plates, scratching it back and forth. He tried to picture Justin using those, his laser sharp focus applied to creating music instead of consuming it, but the image wouldn't fit. It was much easier to imagine the priest lounging in the comfy armchair by the window, one of the numerous volumes from the bookshelf in his lap. He probably curled in there like a cat - there was a groove in the cushions that fit the shape of his body. Maybe while sipping one of the green tea blends he seemed so fond off.

The chainsaw ran an index along the book spines. He'd never been much of a reader himself, and certainly never of the kind of books gathered here: he couldn't find a single work of fiction amidst the collection of psychology textbooks, philosophy dissertations and strategy manuals, a few of them written in foreign languages. Did Justin do anything for fun at all? Giriko could almost map out his evolution, the years of Justin's youth spent absorbing serious information and honing his mind to razor-sharpness, music the only indulgence to pleasure. What an odd, cold life that must have been.

He tugged a book loose whose author sounded familiar, and threw a page open at random. Yeah, Justin had definitely mentioned that one in their discussions. Giriko read a few lines, but bored of it quickly: the style was so convoluted he couldn't really make out the meaning - something to do with the "dialectic of enlightenment", whatever that meant. Still, he found himself smiling at the thought of quoting that text passage at Justin during their next argument. The priest would look puzzled, but then of course he'd probably piece together that the chainsaw had not a single clue what he was talking about, and then maybe he'd laugh and smile, eyes crinkling at the corners, and ...

Giriko slapped himself hard across the face.

"You fucking _moron_!" he hissed in the silence. What the hell was he doing, daydreaming like this? He was drunk enough that he had let his guard down, but the smarting pain in his cheek brought him back to his senses. There would be no next discussion with Justin, no flirting, no tentative to make that asshole laugh, there was no, _no_ scenario that allowed for this. None! Or had he forgotten the cell? Had he forgotten the fucking collar? Had he forgotten whose side Justin had chosen when it mattered the most? What the _fuck_ was he hoping for?

Deep, bitter scorn rose within him like a tidal wave, and he couldn't resist the urge to let his chains run free on his hand, shredding the book to paper pulp. It didn't relieve him in the slightest, and he threw the book remains on the floor, kicking them for good measure. He had to get out of here - that place was messing with his head. He took a few steps towards the front door, intent on leaving the apartment, maybe Death City altogether - to hell with consequences, to hell with everything -, but then his belly grumbled and he decided to pillage Justin's fridge first, on the off-chance his stomach would hold down some food. Maybe he'd even find a beer somewhere.

He found the kitchen, found the almost empty fridge, found some ready-made sandwiches, and munched on them while he threw open each cupboard in search of something alcoholic. He shamelessly rummaged through the collection of pots and pans that looked like they had never been in use, and through the sparse stash of groceries. He was inspecting them more closely, throwing what didn't appeal to him over his shoulder, when his gaze fell upon the windowsill. He froze.

A tiny cactus stood on the shelf, a single, red flower blooming at its top, and next to it -

"Well, _shit_ ," Giriko muttered to himself.

*

He was perched on the counter top, thinking confusing thoughts, when he finally heard the front door open. He waited in silence as the footsteps came closer, filled by a sense of dread and thrill - then Justin appeared in the door frame. The priest hadn't spotted the chainsaw yet, was turned towards something in the living-room, so Giriko could watch him in peace. Lucky so, because he did sorely need that reprieve to adjust to the sight.

The young man wasn't wearing his bulky priest robes for once, but a figure-hugging, gray t-shirt and a pair of black jeans. The shirt's silky fabric was stretched tight along his muscled shoulders and highlighted the slimness of his waist, while those tight pants didn't hide much how perfect his ass was.

 _Damn_. Giriko had always supposed Justin was really hot past the handsome face, but to see the full demonstration of that hotness was still a bit jaw-dropping. Maybe it was out of security concerns he always wore that stupid outfit, Giriko wondered - hard to do track down kishins with hordes of swooning girls at your heels.

Justin eventually turned, eyes following the trail of destruction in his kitchen until they landed on the source of the chaos.

"Hey," the chainsaw offered, mouth suddenly dry.

"Hey," Justin slowly said. He was considering Giriko through narrowed eyes, as if to inspect him for last evening's damages. The night had taken a toll on him too, though. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his usually perfectly combed hair was in a disarray - it looked as if he hadn't slept at all. Still, his eyes were sharp, and his mouth had opened on what would most probably be a biting insult.

But then his gaze dropped to what Giriko held.

The priest's reaction was a further testimony of the rough night he had had. Justin's self-control was seldom less than excellent, his blushing-prone skin the only thing that betrayed him at times. But now his entire face fell for almost two seconds before he could reign it back in, eyes widening in horror and mouth dropping open in an almost comical expression.

Giriko toyed with the little clay puppet in his hands, nails tracing the symbols he had so painstakingly carved in, an eternity ago.

"Thought you said you'd throw it away," he said with false nonchalance.

Justin took a few seconds to answer. "Yeah, I did." His voice was almost toneless, free of its usual provocative edge.

"Why did you keep that junk?" Giriko went on. "It bites." He carefully scratched at the little Golem's sharp teeth to remove the dried spots of blood.

Justin merely shrugged in answer. His entire posture was stiff, feet rooted to the ground as if he was afraid of being thrown off balance. His right index and thumb were rubbing against each other, across the little white scar the puppet had left behind.

The chainsaw waited for him to say something, anything, but the silence stretched further and further, so supercharged with tension Giriko could almost feel it, like an electrical current underneath his skin. After a minute he huffed, and placed the Golem back on the windowsill.

"That's all you have to say?" he lowly growled at Justin's attention, not aggressively yet. His anger had receded while he waited for the priest to show up, but it was still there, an ever-present, smoldering fire ready to flare up at the tiniest drop of oil.

The way Justin's face changed at Giriko's question, his features tightening, sharpening as he snapped to Death Scythe mode, provided almost enough fuel.

"No," Justin said, firm and decisive again. It was a facade, of course it was, but damn if it didn't work well to piss Giriko off. It immediately made his hackles rise. "I have a few things to say to you. First, concerning yesterday...".

So the priest wouldn't lose a single word on the reason why he kept the Golem Giriko made in his fucking kitchen like some kind of war treasure. _Of fucking course_. Staying hear to get an answer had been a terrible idea, Giriko thought, grinding his teeth.

"You may remember there were quite a few persons you injured, especially a young man whose leg was hit," the blond began.

Oh, right, that had been quite a bit of blood on Giriko's discarded shirt, too much to be his own. "Did I kill him?" he inquired with mild curiosity.

Justin glared at him. "You almost severed his leg!" he exclaimed. "It's a miracle he didn't bleed out. I was about to inform you that he is recovering, but obviously you don't care at all. If you had hit the femoral artery, he _would_ be dead, yes!"

"So?"

" _So?"_ Justin's eyes were ablaze, his fists clenched in a rare display of anger. "What do you think would have happened, if you had killed a civilian? What do you think would I have had to do? At the very least you'd be back in the DWMA's prison, or worse. There's nothing I could have done for you!"

"And why the hell d'you care?" the chainsaw shouted back, gripping the counter top to hold back from launching himself at Justin. "You had no problem throwing me in that cell before, had you?"

The priest looked as if Giriko had just slapped him. He was silent for a few heartbeats. "That's not true, and you know it," he finally retorted in a tight, quiet voice.

Giriko harrumphed. "Do I?"

Justin's mouth tightened at the corners, lips close to a quiver, but then he seemed to push whatever that was back, focusing back on his original point.

"I just don't _understand_ you!" he said, heated again. "Why stop showing up at work? Why fight some random drunks? You know the consequences, but you still put your freedom in jeopardy! _Why?"_

Giriko bared his teeth. "You're fucking _surprised_? he hissed, low and dangerous. "Isn't this what you all expect of me?"

He looped his fingers through the collar around his neck, tugging hard to make his point. It felt as if the metal singed every atom of skin it touched, and Giriko almost shook with the undiluted hatred that sensation triggered. He threateningly leaned forward, challenging Justin to react, to give him a single reason to completely lose it, and his voice filled with venom.

"If y'all think I'm some kind of fucking animal, I'm not gonna prove you wrong."

The priest took a step back at the aggressiveness Giriko oozed, alarm in his eyes and arms automatically rising into a fighting stance. The chainsaw barked a laugh at the other's reaction. Who was predictable now? He leaped down from the counter and strode forward, invading Justin's space until they were less than an arm length apart. There was the priest's scent again, intoxicating after such a long time apart - Giriko refrained the urge to sniff like a dog.

"So tell me, Justin," he crooned, voice dropping to seductive depths. "I almost killed a guy. I trashed a bar. Probably smashed some faces, too. You've come to arrest me?"

Justin swallowed, eyes flickering down to Giriko's mouth, then back up with new resolve.

"I..." he started, and licked his lips. "I called in some favors. Made a few arrangements. The matter is solved - as far as the DWMA is concerned, nothing happened last night." His expression was almost defiant. "You're safe."

Giriko grinned ferociously. "Knew it," he spat. "You just can't make up your damn mind about me. And what now, d'you expect some fucking _gratitude_?"

The young man's face twisted as if in agony.

"No!" he stammered. "No, I just - I just don't want you to get into trouble. You're ... you're a colleague, and you haven't been well, so I feel like a free pass for this is justified. It's just ... fair," he finished lamely.

"He," Giriko said with a cruel smile. He rocked back on his heels, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jacket. "I wonder what Nygus or Stein would think of your 'fairness' if I told them their perfect little Death Scythe was doing shady business behind their backs. Or do they know of how generously you grant 'free passes'?"

His suspicions were confirmed when Justin blanched. "You wouldn't."

"Why not?" Giriko retorted with a grating laugh. "Kinda curious about the shitty excuses you'll pull out of your ass as to why you put the big, bad chainsaw in your bathroom rather than custody."

Justin flinched at that, his cheeks taking on a lovely pink hue. Fuck, did he have to be that handsome? Did his shirt have to showcase such nice pecs? _That_ wasn't fair. It took some of the chainsaw's mind off his anger and towards other thoughts, and that was nothing he wanted right now.

"I don't give a shit if they know about yesterday," he still stated. "What the fuck do I have left to lose?"

The priest looked away at that, head averted and shoulders drawn up almost all the way up to his ears. He looked more vulnerable than usual, without the black hull of his robes to conceal the tension in his posture. For the first time Giriko noticed there were no audible beats streaming from the headphones - was Justin listening to music at all?

The young man eventually turned back, and he had never looked that tired and harassed.

"Look, Giriko, I ... I don't want to see you back in that cell, okay?" he said hoarsely. "I ... Please don't. Please don't make me put you in prison again."

Giriko almost slapped him. "Don't you get it?" he yelled, and yanked at the skull collar with both hands in desperate fury. "I never fucking _left_!!!"

Justin's eyes widened in shock - then his entire face crumbled. He opened his mouth to say something, but no tone came out, and he pressed a fist to his lips, squeezing his eyes shut. His shoulders were slightly shaking as if from repressed sobs, and fuck, now it made Giriko feel bad _._ Shit. He really, really should have left before that asshole came back.

The chainsaw ran a hand through his wet hair, and was overcome by great lassitude. He felt exhausted from the fight and his angry outburst, and began to notice the forerunner symptoms of what would probably be an epic headache. Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to be far away and alone, back in his own pigster of a place, with a mind-numbing show running on TV and a cool beer in his hands to nurse his hangover.

"Fuck, I need a drink," he muttered.

Justin's head snapped back up. "I think you've had enough for a lifetime yesterday," he bit out, a resentful line hardening his mouth.

Giriko merely snorted, incredulous. He was amazed at such ignorance. That wasn't how alcoholism worked! There would never be _enough_.

"For someone that smart you can be a real idiot sometimes," he commented, and padded forwards, past the priest and out of the kitchen. He fetched his boot in the corridor, and had his hand on the doorknob when Justin spoke up from behind him.

"Where are you going?" The question sounded anxious, almost childish. Giriko cast him a glance over his shoulder, and sighed. The Death Scythe was nervously twisting his hands, and looked painfully young.

"Away. I won't go and try to kill somebody, if that's what you're asking."

Justin's gaze dropped to the floor. "Will you go back to work?" he quietly asked.

For a second Giriko was tempted to say no. That if they needed him that badly, they'd have to come and fetch him. Did he want to stay alive bad enough to further endure the disgusting, gut-twisting humiliation of his condition?

The picture of Stein's little remote control flashed in front of his inner eye, and his shoulders slumped in defeat. He'd never been a coward, but the idea of not being able to fight back, of being completely at the mercy of the DWMA's goodwill, without anything he could do to save himself, paralyzed him. He couldn't stand the thought of going like that. _I'm dying anyway_ , he thought in dawning realization, _I'm slowly being annihilated_.

But there was nothing he could do, so he jerkily nodded and croaked, "Yeah."

"I'm ... I'm going to find a way," Justin said after a beat, and it had the sound of promise to it. "For things to be ... to be better. For you."

Giriko groaned. Did the kid have to make things even more difficult?

"Listen, drop it, Justin, alright?" he said tiredly, and hated, _hated_ the resignation in his voice, but had no energy left to deny it. "It's over, you guys have won, just... just leave me the fuck alone."

He opened the door, and was two steps down the stairs when he turned in his tracks.

"Oh, and Justin? You've got something, there." He tapped at his own neck, on the spot where angry red marks lurked from beneath Justin's collar, and chuckled to himself when the priest's face took the color of a fire engine. At least it was a nice parting image - he made his way out of the building without a further glance back. He found his second boot lying in the dust on the other side of the street, put both shoes on, and started the long walk back home.

He was pretty confident he'd find a mini-market somewhere on the way. Now there was to hope he could afford enough booze to erase the entire morning from his brain.

 


	17. Departure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the updated rating!

A few weeks passed. After surmounting the worst of his hangover, Giriko had shown up at the workshop as if nothing had happened, and Buttataki Joe had neither commented nor asked questions. If he knew what had happened at the Bald Coyote, he hid it well. Life had retrieved its ordinary course, although some sort of irremediable shift had occurred beneath the surface, a veil of indifference that had spread over Giriko's mind like gray haze.

He didn't care. He didn't care about anything anymore, and went through the days like an automaton, his work on the Golems sloppy, his interactions with BJ almost non-existent. Skull masks had appeared on the Golems overnight and he hadn't so much as shrugged - anger seemed so futile, now.

The 10AM beer had given way to 10AM vodka, and most days he was sloshed before three in the afternoon. BJ had admonished him on a few occasions, notably that time Giriko threw up on the coffee dispenser, but without any handy deterrents there wasn't much he could do to get him to behave. So BJ looked away, came ringing at the chainsaw's door when he failed to appear at work a few times in a row, and didn't further comment that steady path of self-destruction.

The days started blending into each other, losing any distinctive shape as Giriko retreated further and further into himself, hatred gone, indignation gone, his self caving in under the weight of alcohol-fueled numbness. He barely went out anymore, favoring the solitude of his apartment to drink himself to sleep. There was no one he wanted to spend time with anyway, he told himself. A judicious strategy of avoidance and denial had helped him steer clear of most Justin-related thoughts, and the few hours he had spent at the others apartment felt unreal and distant, a fever dream from another life.

Which is why when the bell rang one Saturday afternoon, he was entirely unprepared to find the priest leaning on his door frame.

Giriko blinked, slowly glanced around to see if BJ - whom he had been expecting before remembering it was week-end halfway through answering the door - wasn't hiding behind a potted plant, then looked back at Justin.

The young man was wearing a pale blue t-shirt and a determined expression. "I made up my mind," he said without further preamble.

Giriko blinked again, and slammed the door in Justin's face.

He stared at the door panel for what felt like an entire minute, mind blank, before he warily opened it again. The priest was still there, arms crossed, and steadily returned Giriko's scrutiny.

"What d'you want?" the chainsaw eventually asked.

"To talk," Justin promptly answered. Giriko scoffed and made to shut the door, but the priest squeezed in a foot just in time to hinder it, and wriggled half his torso through the frame before the chainsaw could dislodge him. "No, wait, please hear me out!"

Giriko grunted in displeasure but backed off a few steps, and Justin pushed through the door. He closed it behind him and leaned back, eyes locked on the chainsaw - he was radiating a kind of nervous, expectant energy, an intense expression in his blue eyes.

Giriko sullenly glared back. He didn't even feel curious about the reason of Justin's presence, just tired in advance by the arguing and bargaining that would undoubtedly ensue. After a few seconds of silent exchange, he huffed and turned away, making his way to the couch and plopping backwards into the beat-up cushions. If shit was bound to happen, he'd at least be comfortable. He propped his feet on the arm rest, reached for the open beer on the coffee table and took a sip, observing Justin assess the room. There wasn't much to see, really; besides the clothes and empty bottles strewn around the place was almost empty. Still, Justin seemed to carefully survey it all, gaze methodically scooting around before it landed back on Giriko.

"So," the latter said to fill the silence. "What d'you want to talk about, _Death Scythe_?" He infused the title with all the bitter irony he could muster, and tiredly smirked when Justin flinched. "Thought there was nothing left to say after last time."

The blond straightened, squaring his shoulders like a soldier at a military parade, and took a deep breath. "Yes, yes there is," he began. "There is. First of all, I owe you my apologies."

Giriko raised an eyebrow. "Oh."

"Yes," Justin said with an eager nod, appearing to pluck up courage. "I've been doing a lot of thinking those last days, and I've come to recognize that the DWMA's treatment of you - _my_ treatment of you - was unacceptable. A collaboration has to be built on trust, even if the base of it wasn't voluntary, and by denying you that trust we ensured no improvement was possible on both sides. Withdrawing your freedom of movement was not different from slavery in the end, and even if I was never aboard with this entire idea I still should have protested it more than I did. So on behalf of the DWMA, I ask for your pardon. I know not all of my colleagues share my opinions on you ... "

Giriko stopped listening. The words splashed meaningless around him, his focus on the priest's serious face as he recited what was with no doubt a rehearsed speech. Frankly, he didn't care much about the apology. Sure, it was a nice surprise that the blond had finally got his head out of his ass, but it was too little, too late. No, the content of that fancy talk didn't matter. What _did_ matter was that Justin wasn't wearing his priest robes, that Justin was here, alone, in the chainsaw's apartment on a Saturday, that Justin, on second sight, wasn't even wearing his headphones. Now _that_ meant business.

Giriko watched the blond talk for a further minute, watched his hands flutter around and the heated glow on his face. The priest looked damn good in blue, he thought. Probably dressed like that on purpose. It wasn't what he'd planned for the day, but fuck, why not, he'd roll with it - he vaguely called up a mental check-list. Alcohol level? Tolerable. Shower in the morning? Check. All ready to go.

He lazily stretched, aware of the way his black tank top rode up his stomach with the strength of the motion, and there was the last confirmation he needed: the flicker of Justin's gaze down to his navel. Hell, it wasn't even discreet.

"Yanno, if you simply want to fuck all you have to do is ask," he drawled into the next lull of the priest's soliloquy.

There was a beat of silence. Then Justin flushed bright red. "What?!" he sputtered. "That's not what I ... _what_?!"

Giriko propped himself up on one elbow, and shot the blond a cynical half-smile that showed too much teeth. "No need to play coy, priest boy. Ain't it why you're here?"

A look of confused panic flashed across Justin's features. "N-N- _No!_ " he stammered, hands raised in a defensive gesture. "What on earth makes you think that?! I'm here to ... I wanted to ..." He swallowed, eyes darting back and forth between the chainsaw's face and the chainsaw's chest, at a loss for words. "I'm _not_ here for sex!" he finally exclaimed, but it sounded ridiculously petulant.

Since when was that dirty bastard unable to pull off a smooth lie? It pissed Giriko off.

"Yeah? You sure about that?" he inquired, tone deceptively mild. He brought his feet down from the armrest and slowly pushed himself up, hands in his pockets and gaze never leaving Justin's, attuned to the others every movement, to every little telltale sign of desire - and come on, he _knew_ that blush, _knew_ that nervous blink, who the fuck did the priest think he could kid?

But Justin still had the nerve to nod and say, "I'm sure," as though he expected Giriko to gobble down that blatant lie, as though the matter was settled in spite of the insincerity in his voice, and the chainsaw felt a surge of pitch-black anger.

"Cut the _bullshit_ ," he sneered. He took three long strides forward, and the blond jumped back like a startled rabbit, his back hitting the front door with a loud thud. Giriko leaned in, bringing his face close to the others until they were only a few hand breadths apart.

"You waltz in here on the pretense of some crap apology," he hissed, low and threatening, "And you expect me to believe fucking's not the end goal?"

From this close he could see how shallow Justin's breathing was, his pupils blown wide and lips slightly parted, and felt a rush of cold rancor churn his stomach. In the pockets of his jogging pants his hands clenched to tight fists, fingernails digging grooves into his palms. _Only thing I'm good for_ , he thought. Wasn't it what they were to each other, in the end - a release valve?

"You said you wanted to make things better for me, right?" the chainsaw continued with a snarl of contempt. He bent his head sideways, and blew a gush of hot air against the blond's ear, bristling golden hair strands. The priest shivered.

"This? _Better_ ," Giriko purred. He had intended the words to come out dripping irony, but then he breathed in that heady scent that was pure, unadulterated _Justin,_ and his voice turned husky when a sudden pang of lust hit in.

"Get _off_ ," the priest growled. He grabbed a fistful of Giriko's tank top, his fingers like ice against the chainsaw's skin, and shoved at his shoulder to make him retreat half a step. And then didn't let go.

Giriko cast the hand on his shoulder a pointed look. Slowly glanced up at Justin. Exhaled.

Justin stared him straight in the eye for a second - then he blurted out a very undignified "Fuck!" and slammed his mouth against Giriko's.

The chainsaw almost tripped at the fierce yank on his collar, his hands uselessly trapped in his pockets - then they found their way to the young man's waist and he was free to savagely kiss back. Justin's lips were like lava on his, pressing with urgent force, and cold fingers weaved their way into the hair above Giriko's nape, pulled hard - hot pain spiked along the chainsaw's scalp, and he groaned into the others mouth. To hell with it all.

His thumbs dug into the priest's firm midriff as he shoved back, pinning Justin to the wall with his superior mass. He angled his head for better access, mouth half-open as he drew in a panting breath, and the blond's tongue was on his immediately, slick and warm and delicious. This was serious now - Giriko felt ablaze with desire, a straightforward need for _more more more_ , and the softness of Justin's lips, the eagerness of his tongue, the choked gasps he felt more than he heard made him go crazy with want. One of the blond's legs coiled around the older man's calf - he was clawing at Giriko's shoulders, tongue twirling with the chainsaw's as if his life depended on it, all hesitancy forgotten.

Giriko let go of Justin's waist in order to grab his thighs and hoist him up, and the blond complied without breaking the kiss, wrapping his legs around Giriko's hips while his fingernails raked lines of pleasurable pain into the older man's scalp. The chainsaw moved his hands up to the small of Justin's back to better support the others weight, sliding them under the young man's t-shirt in the process, the skin warm and soft against his palms.

Then Justin rocked up against him, grinding his crotch against the cottony fabric of Giriko's pants, and he couldn't stifle the moan of pleasure that escaped his lips. The chainsaw could feel Justin's hard erection beneath his jeans' denim, could feel his own cock throb in response, and when Justin rocked up again he drew back from the kiss just to see if his own lust was mirrored on the blond's face.

The sight hit him like a ton of bricks. Justin's lips were swollen, his hair tousled and his cheeks pink - he looked thoroughly undone, and more gorgeous than ought to be possible. As Giriko watched his eyes opened to a blue slit. When Justin caught the chainsaw looking at him he frowned and tried to recapture Giriko's mouth, giving a little hiss of frustration when the chainsaw pulled back. But a thing about his impatient expression, about the demanding heat in his eyes, broke some of the spell and suddenly Giriko was full of bitter resentment again. The ring of metal seemed to inexorably tighten around his neck.

"Fuck, but you're a real piece of shit, aren't you," he growled.

He drew Justin closer and ferociously bit down on his lower lip. The blond gasped, eyes wide, and gave the base of Giriko's spine a vicious kick in retaliation - the chainsaw grunted in pain and thrust his hips forward, crushing Justin harder against the wall. He let go of the priest's lip in favor of assaulting his neck, the skin delicate like silk paper under his mouth, the others heartbeat pulsing against his lips. He found faded yellow bruises on his way down to the shoulder, aligned his teeth to the imprints and bit, hard. Justin gave a long, shuddering moan, head falling backwards, and Giriko had to close his eyes for a second to calm down his racing heart.

His right hands left the blond's back to reach for his fly instead - Justin slid down the wall a few inch before he dragged himself back into verticality, clutching at Giriko's shoulders.

"S' what you want from me, right?" the chainsaw said hoarsely as he fumbled the zipper loose one-handed. "I can give you that."

Fuck, who was he kidding, he'd gladly provide. In the end it didn't matter how angry he was, how hollow he felt, because fucking was still fucking and Justin was still _Justin_ and it killed him how much he wanted him.

"Wha...?" the priest said dazedly, but then Giriko shoved his hand in his boxer briefs and he seemed to lose track of the conversation, mouth falling open on a shocked inhale.

The chainsaw found warm, hard flesh and freed Justin's member from its restraints, then tugged the priest's jeans down his thighs for better access, an awkward balancing act he somehow managed to pull off without dropping his charge. He wrapped his fingers around the others cock, started to pump and - shit, it was as if that dick was _made_ for him, the way it fit in his palm and responded to his every movement, tantalizingly hard beneath perfect softness. Justin was giving him a glazed, heavy-lidded look, and it _looked_ like he was moaning but no sound breached his lips, chest heaving but exhales stuck in his throat as if he was hyperventilating, and the absence of sound when there should by all means _be_ some was unsettling and extremely arousing.

" _Damn_ ," Giriko breathlessly cursed, and crushed his lips against Justin's.

His tongue darted out to lick the inside of the others mouth, exploring every corner with possessive sweeps, and _that_ got him a sound, a strangled whimper he swallowed with delight. He increased his rhythm on the blond's cock, and was rewarded when Justin started moaning into his mouth in earnest, an array of low, throaty tones tumbling from his lips and vibrating against Giriko's.

It was exhilarating, to be the one to make this happen, to have the undeniable proof he got beneath the priest's skin. That there was still something, someone he could have an effect on, matter to - for whom he still _existed_. For a while he let himself enjoy it unthinkingly, the tremors of the lean body in his arms, the taste of Justin's mouth, the hard length under his hand.

Then the blond's cold fingers tightened convulsively on his shoulders. His lips unglued from Giriko' when his head dropped, chin tipping down and shoulders slouching as if he was curling up on himself. His forehead came to a rest against the older man's jaw, slick with a thin sheen of sweat, and there was no mistaking the way his breath caught.

Fuck, this was _not_ how Giriko wanted it to end. He let go of the blond's cock to forcibly drag his face back up, ignoring the resulting whine of protest.

"Eyes on me," he snapped.

Justin gave him an uncomprehending stare, his blue eyes foggy, but obediently locked on Giriko's. The chainsaw let go of the blond's jaw to retrieve his dick, running his thumb over the wet head, and the priest moaned, his head immediately falling back down as if he couldn't hold it upright anymore.

Giriko cursed. He shifted more of the priest's weight onto the wall and freed his left hand, ignoring the protest signals from his knees, then grabbed Justin's face, his fingers digging bruisingly into the young man's cheeks. He gave Justin's head a good shake until the haze in his eyes was replaced with angry focus.

"Don't you _dare_ look away again," Giriko said roughly, and resumed pumping the blond's shaft with his right, settling on an uncompromising rhythm.

The priest's eyelids fluttered shut for a second as he shuddered, and his head threatened to drop again, but the chainsaw forcibly held him upright and then those cold blue irises were fixated on his, were _registering_ him.

Justin was on the brink of orgasm again, Giriko could tell. Suddenly all he wanted was for the other to acknowledge all of this, that it was _Giriko_ who had him panting and moaning, that it was _Giriko_ who had broken his composure, that all of this was _him_. _Him!_ Him who had the upper hand in this game of getting to the others mind. Him to whom Justin should concede defeat.

" _Say my name_ ," Giriko hissed as he felt Justin's cock starting to throb in his palm. He tightened his grip, both on the blond's length and on his face. "I want you to say my fucking _name._ "

The priest's lips parted on a trembling exhale. But then he smiled, a soft, tender smile that reached his eyes and lit up his features, and when he talked it didn't sound like a plea of surrender at all.

" _Giriko_ ," Justin said, the name rolling off his tongue like an endearment, and came on the chainsaw's fingers with a long, low whimper.

Giriko withdrew his hands and hurriedly stepped back, dropping the blond like a hot potato - Justin collapsed to the floor in a messy heap of limbs. The chainsaw gaped at him, heart pounding, thoughts coming to a screeching halt. He absentmindedly wiped his sticky hand on his jogging pants.

Justin was dazedly staring into the distance, softly panting, his jeans tangled around his ankles and a faraway look on his face. Then he blinked. He huffed, a funny little sound, and one corner of his mouth twitched in amusement. He looked up at the chainsaw, eyes bright and mischievous, the sparks in them almost dancing. Crinkles of laughter formed around his eyes when he saw Giriko's expression, but before the chainsaw could work up some anger Justin said, "Can I suck you off?"

Giriko groaned, shutting his eyes. His erection manifested itself, and all of a sudden it felt painfully evident how little stimulation he had had until know. He'd think about Justin's smile and what that shit meant later, because right now there was _no way in hell_ he could refuse that offer. And regarding the thing that churned in his chest when he had heard his own name spoken like that ... well, _that_ he'd better not think of at all.

He bent forward, picked up the blond by the armpits, then proceeded to drag him to the nearby couch without bothering to help him up to his feet, ignoring Justin's exclamation of protest. He heavily sat down and tugged at Justin's t-shirt - who helpfully raised his arms so Giriko could free him from the fabric -, and had the sudden urge to whistle.

"Fucking hell, how are you even real?"

He slowly dragged his fingers across the priest's chest, across chiseled pecs and a dusting of freckles, marveling at the creamy smoothness of skin under his digits. _Wow_ , he thought, too stunned to be embarrassed about it. _Wow wow wow_.

"Your turn," Justin said. He stood up, bracing himself on Giriko's knees to kick his pants and shoes off, and boldly climbed on the chainsaw's lap. He pulled up the hem of Giriko's tank top, and the chainsaw harrumphed but stripped obligingly.

The priest hummed in appreciation.

"Been wanting to do this for a while," he murmured, and then in an instant his mouth was on one of Giriko's nipples, nipping at the barbell piercing, while his hands ran over the chainsaw's taut abs. Giriko tried and failed not to moan when his piercing was painfully twisted, arousal rushing down his spine like an electric shock. He thrust up, poking the priest's bare ass with his boner, a wordless reminder of Justin's initial intent. The young man gave his nipple one last fierce bite, then slid down to settle between Giriko's thighs. The chainsaw lifted his hips so Justin could tug his pants and trunks down, and then finally his cock sprang free and Justin's mouth was hovering mere inches away from it.

And not moving. And not moving. The priest even pulled away a bit.

" _What_?" Giriko snarled, defensive.

"Uh, nothing," Justin quickly answered, but he had a weird look on his face. "It's just ... uh ..." He licked his lips, brought them closer to the head of the chainsaw's cock, who refrained a whimper of impatience when a gush of hot air hit the sensitive skin.

"Big," Justin finished, and plunged down to take Giriko's cock in his mouth. The chainsaw threw his head back with a deep groan, and then _finally_ the blond started to _move_ , lips exerting soft pressure and mouth _hot_ and _wet_ , and Giriko thought he might have died and reached another plane of existence.

"Holy shit," he gasped, and that was the last coherent thing he said for a while, pleasure taking over his conscious mind. Giriko's hands clenched to tight fists in the couch's fabric, threatening to rip apart the upholstery as he struggled with all might not to buck up into the others mouth. It was obvious Justin didn't have much experience with this, his pace a bit clumsy and his teeth sometimes catching over delicate skin, but the irregularity of the motion was somehow even _better_ , each erratic motion and each scrap of teeth working to keep the chainsaw on edge.

And then there was the sight, Justin's lips wrapped around his cock, his look of determination, and Giriko's wasn't sure if it was that image or the actual sensation that was the most arousing, only that he couldn't stop staring and couldn't refrain the little sounds of pleasure that escaped his lips.

Then the blond pulled back, his cool hands on the chainsaw's hips the only remaining point of contact. Justin calmly smiled up at him and swallowed to get rid of excess saliva, his lips very pink, looking so strikingly handsome it took Giriko a while to register that the priest didn't seem to want to resume the blow-job.

"What are you ..." the chainsaw wheezed, trying to give his voice a hard edge rather than the anxious tremolo that felt more appropriate. "Fuck, Justin, don't you just stop like that, what are you waiting fo- _nnnngh!_ "

The priest's lips closed over the very tip of his cock. He sucked hard at the oversensitive glans, tongue gently pushing at the underside - Giriko's flesh flared up with undiluted pleasure, and it was suddenly way, _way_ too much. He tried to voice a protest, but the words broke down to an indistinct pulp on his tongue, as if he had left the realm of language far behind to be reborn pure sensation. He brought a hand to Justin's hair with the intent of hauling him away, but then the young man dived down again and sucked at the chainsaw's cock from base to tip, and Giriko shook and whimpered something that sounded suspiciously like the others name.

Justin relocated one of his hands from Giriko's hip to the base of his shaft, and sped up the movements of his head, his hand working in concert with his mouth, and it felt so _incredible_ the stray thought occurred to Giriko that this was _it_ , this was what was _meant_ to be. He felt a familiar tension build up at the base of his spine, coil in his balls, and his fingers reflexively clenched in the soft blond hair. Too hard, probably, since Justin snarled around his cock with too much teeth, but in the end it was that painful scraping that tossed Giriko over the edge and into raw bliss. He gasped, and spilled himself into the others mouth, his vision blurring with the shattering force of his orgasm.

He didn't come back to himself for a long time, his mind cobbling together a kaleidoscope of stray sensations - downy hair warm mouth cold hands sparkling eyes - without aligning them properly. He felt drained and blitzed and wonderful.

Justin released the chainsaw's softening cock with a wet plop and wiped his mouth. He braced his elbows on Giriko's thighs and rested his chin on his interlocked fingers - he seemed a bit out of breath, but content, and wore a proud, almost cocky smile the chainsaw wasn't sure he liked or not.

They silently watched each other for a moment, regaining their breaths and cooling down, Giriko's mind adrift with warm pleasure.

Then Justin cleared his throat.

"Anyway," he said, evenly picking up the conversation thread as if there had been no angry fucking in between. "Back to my original point ..."

The peace shattered at once.

"Oh for _fuck's_ sake," Giriko spat. He hoicked up a feet and roughly kicked at Justin's collarbone, sending the young man toppling backwards. "You're fucking _unbelievable!_ "

He picked up his pants and pulled them on with jerky motions. All the post-coital bliss had lifted as if wiped out of existence, the reality of his situation crashing in on him again, and he felt first bouts of rage twist his stomach. Couldn't the priest give him a break for _two fucking minutes_? Really, was it that much too ask?

Justin was emulating him and putting on his trousers, though in a more civilized fashion.

"I wasn't done earlier," he calmly said while fastening buttons. "There are still a few things I'd like to discuss with you."

The chainsaw ran both hands through his sweat-damp hair then angrily crossed his arms, slouching back into the couch.

"You're sorry, I get it!" he retorted. "You apologized, we fucked, we're good now." He knew how bitter he sounded, but genuinely didn't care. He motioned towards the door with his chin. "So get the fuck out."

Justin huffed, lips pinched in annoyance. "Giriko, listen, I -"

Suddenly the chainsaw understood what the blond was getting at, and snorted at that realization. Well, it was admittedly hard to object to that, but the priest's timing was real crap.

"Look, if you wanna make this a regular thing," he cut the other off, "Fuck knows I'm not gonna say no. But I've got one condition and it's that you stop fuckin' _talking._ So how 'bout we leave it at that and you go back to doing whatever shit it is you do -"

"For the love of Death," Justin exploded. "Will you _please_ shut up and stop interrupting me?!"

Giriko glowered, but shut his mouth. The priest waited for a few seconds as if to challenge him to pipe up, then retrieved a put-together tone.

"So. What I came here for. Just a question, really." He took a steadying breath, face dead serious. "Would you like to get away from here?"

The chainsaw shrugged and grimaced, perplexed. "What'ya mean, 'from here'?"

"From here," Justin confirmed. "Death City, Nevada."

"What the _fuck_ are you talking about?"

Giriko's nostrils flared in anger. He crouched forwards, limbs tensing, and his voice grew low and dark with warning. "I don't know what you're aiming at, asshole, but I'd recommend you stop right here before I do something you'd _very much_ regret."

His chains were at the ready, buzzing beneath his skin, roaring to be let loose and feed his resentment with a bloody tribute. The fucker _dared_ to start shit like that?

The blond ignored his threat entirely. "Would you like," he slowly, but firmly repeated, "To get away?"

Giriko barked a humorless laughter. He was being played, again, because apparently giving him glimpses of hope only to squash them was the DWMA's idea of aftercare. Phenomenal.

"Of fucking _course_ I'd like to _get away_ ," he bit out between gritted teeth, heavily emphasizing the words as if speaking to a hearing-impaired person. "But that is _not_. _A_ _fucking_. _Option!_ "

He seized the collar and rattled at it in demonstration. _This_ was his reality, the shit show he had to deal with day and night - no need for Justin to further remind him of it for the sake of whatever game he was playing. He bared his teeth, then looked down and away, resignation burning through his stomach like an acid. How much more often would he have to have this conversation?

The blond nodded to acknowledge his statement, appearing unconcerned. He finished dressing up, running a hand over his t-shirt to flatten the creases, then burrowed a hand in his jean's pocket. After a moment he produced a tiny metallic object, short and flat, with a complicated pattern of striae on one end and a plastic encasing on the other.

It was a key.

"It is an option now," Justin simply said. "I'm giving you an out."

Giriko blinked.

"What."

He stared at the object for a few heartbeats - then squeezed his eyes tightly shut, shaking his head to clear his mind. But when he looked again the key in Justin's palm was still there, solid and real. The young man was watching him intently.

Giriko felt a lump build in his throat. "You're joking," he croaked. There was a burning sensation at the back of his eyes.

Justin gently smiled. He walked around the couch, movements slow and measured as if not to startle the chainsaw, and placed a hand on Giriko's bare shoulder blade, the touch almost reverent. The chainsaw held perfectly still, eyes wide, barely daring to blink. There was a push of metal against his nape. A soft clicking sound.

Then the collar fell in Giriko's lap with a quiet thud.

He picked it up.

He felt numb, oddly disconnected.

Against his palms the inside ring of the collar was warm with borrowed heat, the outside slightly cooler. It felt light, lighter than Giriko had thought it weighed.

He ran an index across the skull logo. Raised a hand. His fingers ghosted over his own neck, touch feather-light, awaiting the accursed contact of metal. But there was only his own skin, and the soft pressure of Justin's palm against his shoulder blade. The collar was gone.

On a sudden impulse Giriko tossed it across the room, heart thundering in his chest. The thing bounced against a lamp and clinked to a halt somewhere amidst the litter.

Nothing happened.

 _I'm free_ , he thought dizzily. _I'm free._

There was a sort of high-pitched ringing in his ears, and a chill slowly crept up his spine, settling somewhere at the base of his skull. He was faintly aware of the hair on his forearms standing on end.

Justin spoke up from behind him, his voice somewhat strained. "So, yeah," he coughed. "As I said. Getting away is an option now."

His fingers slightly tightened against Giriko's shoulder, his thumb tracing hesitant circles.

"Obviously, you can go wherever you like," he added. "But I got you a plane ticket to Europe, in case you want it."

Giriko swiveled in his seat and grabbed the priest's wrist. " _When_ ," he managed to choke out past the constriction in his throat.

"Tonight," the priest answered with a nervous smile. "You, uhm, you may want to start packing."

The chainsaw stared at him for a few seconds - then he jumped up and frantically began picking up things. His heart was beating a staccato rhythm, his hands trembling with adrenaline, and he almost tripped over his own feet in his haste. He found an old sports bag in a corner and stuffed every item of clothing he could find in it, limping across the room. For the first time in a while he felt irritated at the stiffness in his ankle slowing him down, and took mental note to finally sit down to do Nygus' health exercises sometime in the future.

Then a sudden thought hit him and he froze, socks in hand. He turned to Justin.

"Does the DWMA endorse all of this?"

The blond leaned against a wall, hands behind his back, and shot him a pained smile. "What do you think?"

Giriko sent him a serious glance, then nodded. He quickly finished packing and sat down to lace his boots. "You gonna be in trouble?" he said, keeping his eyes down.

He heard Justin sigh. "We'll see just how much," the other eventually answered. "And, uh, Giriko?"

The chainsaw looked up. There was a tightness in the priest's features, a sadness clouding his eyes, but his smile was earnest.

"You should put a shirt on," Justin said, eyes softly crinkling. "Not that I mind."

Giriko huffed a laughter and complied, then shrugged on his jacket as an afterthought. He scanned the room for remaining possessions, but it was now mostly empty beyond garbage, and the silvery shape of the collar lurking from beneath a takeout bag. Nothing he would miss. He found it hard to believe he had been living here for so long.

Justin was already at the door, and before the chainsaw could inquire how things went on from here the priest grinned.

"Need a ride?"

*

A dune buggy was waiting for them at the foot of Giriko's building. It had a coffin-shaped trailer, and bore all of the priest's trademark - black and white paint job, and enormous chrome-colored subwoofers. Justin opened the coffin's lid for the chainsaw to toss his sports bag in, then climbed on the seat. The only seat.

Giriko awkwardly stood on the sidewalk, at a loss on how to proceed, until the young man raised an eyebrow at him.

"Are you waiting for a written invitation?" he drawled, and patted the leather cushion behind him.

The chainsaw irritatedly huffed and threw a leg over the bike, sliding in the scare space until he was pressed against Justin. He found footholds, and cautiously sneaked an arm around the others waist, who hummed in approval and revved up the engine. There was a howl of motor and they departed down the street.

The engine was vibrating beneath him and the priest's body was warm were it slotted between his thighs, and somehow it felt too intimate, to let the other drive him like that. But then Justin shot him a smile over his shoulder, eyes sparkling blue, and Giriko felt some of the unease melt away and relaxed against the priest's lean back.

Soon they had left the city behind. The sun was setting, its eyes droopy with sleep and grin faded to a tired grimace, and the great Nevada sky was vibrant with broad streaks of color. Magenta and orange reflections set the sand ablaze, flooding the pale dunes like rivers of light, and the air smelled of dry dust and warm rocks.

The road wind was whipping Giriko's face, bringing tears to his eyes. Through that watery prism the landscape distorted and blurred to a rainbow-colored phantasmagoria, a dazzling canvas of blue and pink trails, and the flashes of passing front lights blinded the chainsaw like lightning. It all felt surreal - a dream so prolonged it had become indiscernible from the waking world.

They drove for what could have been hours or what could have been minutes, time a fuzzy notion compared to the steadying reality of Justin's back, until Death City Airport came into sight. Garish neon light pierced the shadows that had slowly crept over the desert, and in the distance a plane thundered by.

Justin smoothly pulled in at the far end of the parking lot.

Giriko clumsily untangled his limbs from the priest's and jumped off, almost stumbling the landing, then went to retrieve his bag. He felt eerily lightheaded, the buzzing of the street lamps vibrating through his skull way louder than it should.

When he turned back Justin was holding a thick brown envelope. "Here," the priest said, and handed it to him. "Everything you need should be in there."

Giriko riffled through the contents - a fake passport, a substantial wad of cash, and a plane ticket for Warsaw. He shot Justin a stunned look. How long had he been planning that escape?

"I'd recommend you keep a low profile once you get there," the blond suggested. He had loosely perched on his dune buggy, hands clenched in his lap. "I don't think the DWMA will go out of its way to find you, but I can't guarantee it, and, after what I did today," - he briefly did that pained smile thing again - "I probably can't prevent it, either. So it'd be better if you don't run around flaunting your autonomous weapon talents. You're a bit ..." He paused, searching for words. He cast Giriko an amused glance, and a warm expression spread across his face. "Conspicuous."

The chainsaw huffed. "Conspicuous, huh."

He looked over his shoulder at the airport entrance, then back at Justin, and felt deeply exhausted all of a sudden. He had the urge to lay down on the abrasive bitumen, and sleep for a month.

"You ..." he began, his voice raspy. He had to swallow to get some moisture in his mouth. "Why are you doing all of this?"

Justin softly exhaled, glancing down at his hands, and the yellow light of the street lamps cast deep shadows on his face.

"Does it really matter?" he said.

There was a sort of underlying force to his voice, an aura of calm and confidence, and Giriko felt drawn to it, drawn to that sweet oblivion he had felt in those short moments after sex, that had felt a lot like home. But he just stood there, motionless - the sense of disconnect, of distance towards the events was there again, paralyzing him more effectively than chains ever could.

The priest looked up, and riveted his eyes to the chainsaw's. "I like you," he went on, matter-of-factly, as if he was commenting the weather forecast. "That's all."

Giriko's stomach painfully clenched, a sort of agonizing twist that felt a lot like desperation, but outwardly he merely huffed.

"Weirdo," he grunted dismissively, but Justin's faint smile showed he was not fooled.

"So," the blond said. "You should go."

"Yeah." Giriko nervously ran a hand through his hair, adjusted the bag's strap on his shoulder.

Justin tilted his head, expression inscrutable. "Farewell, then."

"Yeah," the chainsaw rasped. He took a few slow steps backwards without letting go of the blond's gaze, then turned around towards the airport, his strides quickening. He regularly looked over his shoulder, watching the priest's lean silhouette against the darkening evening sky, barely able to tear his gaze away from that pale face even as it shrunk to invisibility in the distance. _I'm free_ , he thought. _I'm free_.

Then why was breathing so difficult?

*

An hour later he was up in the clouds.

It had all went smoothly, the security checks quick, the staff friendly in an impersonal way, and his ass had found its way to a comfy window seat before he could really process the reality of it all. On the west the sky still held tints of faint pink, but behind Giriko's hatch stars were already high, twinkling like fairy lights against the velvety canopy. The chainsaw was holding very still, one hand against his neck, thumb stroking in a regular motion.

This had all happened. For real. He was getting away. Free at last.

He shuddered a sigh, and pressed his forehead against the cool glass.


	18. Growth

Little cloud-shaped puffs were gently wandering over the blue canopy of the Death Room. The rows of tombs went on as far as the eye could see, throwing harsh shadows on the white sand. It was eerily silent.

It was the first time Justin witnessed that room without the comforting cocoon of his music to shroud him - he had thought some measure of penance was appropriate, regarding the circumstances. With no melodies to help him measure the passage of time, he was overcome by a peculiar sense of eternity, as if aeons could pass by before he noticed, time weightless and unimportant in this realm of mild summer days that never ceased.

He carefully set down his tea cup, and folded his hands in his lap.

"I felt it was the right thing to do," he finally answered.

Lord Death took a sip of his own tea. "Hmm-hmm. Do tell why, my dear Justin." His quirky, booming voice still felt startling.

Justin softly exhaled, on the search for words. It had took him a long time to recognize his feelings past the first surge of instinctive denial, and even longer to phrase those thoughts that had plagued him, tarnished his faith like tar. But once his decision had fallen it had all slotted into place. He felt the master of his own mind for the first time in months - not unburdened, far from that; but coherent at least.

"When you allowed Stein to monitor Giriko with that surveillance collar - it just wouldn't sit with me," he slowly began, his gaze wandering over to the crosses. "Of course I understood the reasons that called for it. And for someone else that's a measure I might have approved of. But for someone like _him ..._ that collar was ... _cruel_. And everyone knew it."

He paused, waiting for the Shinigami to contradict him, but the God remained silent, his black gaze inscrutable.

"I still accepted your decision, of course. The thought I could do otherwise didn't even occur to me. But that's when it started. When I started to realize."

Lord Death twirled his tea cup on his index. "What did you realize?"

"I had never doubted your judgement before. Since the Academy took me in, your word has been the word I've lived by - you know my utter devotion to you. But that also means that I've never -"

He swallowed. Somehow, acknowledging this aloud hurt, a dull bruise to his pride.

"That I've never had any morality of my own. I never stopped to ask myself if what I was doing was right or not. All those books and debates ... There were ... abstractions, mere intellectual gimmicks. It never had anything to do with me. The DWMA has been my entire moral compass."

The Shinigami nodded, humming lightly.

"And there are worse ethics to rely on, of course," Justin continued. "The Academy has put me to some good use, I think, but ... it never really felt like a _choice_."

When he had been admitted at the DWMA, when they'd seen value in his more unusual capacities and offered him an outlet for his darker impulses - he was smitten. He had found a home, a faith, stability, _sanity_. He would have done _anything_ they told him to.

Only in retrospect did he realize that that steadiness he had craved so much had been as much of a straightjacket as of a shelter.

He clasped his tea cup again, his eyes' reflection glancing at him amidst the pale liquid.

"I ... can't go on like this. Accepting your truth as the only truth. Never questioning what I'm told to do. I've travelled the world, I've schooled my mind, yet I've always looked at it through your eyes, sought to improve skills that you might find useful. I'm ... This is not me any more," he concluded. "I don't really know who I am yet. But not this."

Not someone who would tolerate and help perpetrate injustice in the name of a greater good. Who'd see someone suffer, suffer by his fault, and deem it inevitable.

He didn't want to be that person any more.

Who cared what Giriko had done in the past, who cared if he was repentant or not - justice should uplift, not destroy, not crush someone to a thing that could barely stand. And if a leap of faith was what it took to set things straight, then Justin would jump. He was done with the cynicism of the DWMA's approach.

The mask of his former god and master remained as expressionless as it ever had. Considering how long Justin had worshipped him, it came as a bit of a surprise how unfathomable what went on in the Shinigami's head was to him. Did he doubt the Academy he built, at times? Did some of the things he had commanded in the name of order sicken him?

It had been so easy, so comfortable for Justin to give the DWMA his all when he was still certain of the Shinigami's infallibility. But that comfort had grown stale.

"I deplore that I had to go behind my colleagues' backs," he finished. "Maybe I should have talked it out. But I don't regret what I've done."

Those probably weren't the apologies Lord Death wanted to hear, but Justin had none to offer.

He straightened, chin up, and steeled himself for the verdict.

Lord Death was silent for a few dreadful seconds. Then he clapped his huge hands with a resounding smack.

"Well, alrighty then!" he cheerfully exclaimed.

And that was it.

Justin blinked. "... Uh."

Lord Death questioningly cocked his head.

Justin cleared his throat. "Isn't there ... isn't there going to be a punishment?" Death Scythe or not, he had stolen and defied orders. There had to be consequences. Hadn't there?

The Shinigami shrugged. "Now what good would that do, hmm?" he said, voice gentle. "What's done is done. If you want to leave, as you said, we can't hold you back."

"But... but I ..." Justin stammered.

Lord Death shushed him with a gesture. "To be honest with you, I've always worried about the proportions your idolatry took, Justin dear. It's a fine line from faith to fanaticism, and you have toed it more often than not." His voice grew pensive. "You were a bit too young, a bit too lonely when you joined the Academy, I dare say... So it's good to see you stepping away from this, in spite of foolish results."

Justin felt his face heat up at the reprimand. It just know occurred to him that despite what he had thought at the time, there certainly would have been better ways to deal with Giriko's situation. But he had been afraid a direct confrontation with his colleagues would change his mind. And too much of a coward to stand his ground, probably. _I'll do better next time_ , he vowed to himself.

"You have yet to see the wider scope of things, Justin dear," Lord Death said. "But I guess you won't be able to without gaining new perspectives first. It might actually do you some good to leave us for a bit."

The words had a ring of finality, and suddenly it all felt frighteningly real. He was doing this. He was leaving everything he knew behind. There was a lump in his throat, threatening to choke him.

"I don't know if I'll be back," he still managed to say.

Lord Death leaned forward, and Justin imagined that whatever was behind the mask, it was gently smiling.

"I don't doubt you will."

Justin stood up on somewhat wobbly legs, and bowed, trying to convey some of the reverence and thankfulness he felt. Whatever lay ahead, the DWMA had made him the man he was, and it would always have a special place in his heart.

Lord Death gave him a huge, double thumb-up. "Good luck, Justin dear!"

He would need it, so much was clear.

*

When he left the Death Room, he found Nygus leaning on a pillar, arms crossed. She was obviously waiting for him. Her face was bandaged again, but one look into her eyes told him everything he needed to know about her current mood.

"Hey," he still said, and cringed at how sheepish his voice sounded.

Nygus didn't bother with a greeting. "Mind explaining what the hell it is you think you're doing?" she said coldly, and stepped forward as if to bar his way, fists on her hips. It was a posture he had seen her adopt towards unruly students a hundred times or more, and he felt frustratingly young all of a sudden.

He offered her the same answer he had given Lord Death. "What's right, I hope."

He stood stiffly, hands limp at his side, and bitterly missed his earphones. He wished he could have postponed that conversation just a few more hours.

Nygus scoffed. "What's right. You steal from Stein. You lie to us all. You help a public menace to escape. And that's supposed to be _right!_ "

Justin scowled. "Well treating someone under your care as a slave out of mere convenience, that wasn't right either."

He knew his reply sounded defensive, and it didn't seem to appease Nygus one bit. Her eyes were ablaze, her naked shoulders tense with rippling muscles.

"A man who sided with a monster!" she exclaimed with a brash gesture. "A man who's killed some of our own! Did you forget all about that?!"

Justin didn't reply, barely able to meet her gaze. He felt guilty of how indifferent he was towards Giriko's misdeeds, but at the same time a loud part of him was shouting, _So what?_ Did he _have_ to care?

When nothing came Nygus changed tactics, her tone almost pleading. "Justin. Please use that brain of yours for just one damn second. You're throwing away your career, your friends, all of your achievements - for what? A man with a soul so damaged even Marie couldn't mend it?"

Yes, he was. And he should start to stand by it.

He looked her in the eye. "Exactly."

She shook her head, aghast. "Giriko's a wreck," she insisted. "A complete and utter mess. And an asshole at that."

"I know. I don't care."

She stared at him for a few seconds, then cursed under her breath.

"I'm such an idiot," she growled to herself. "I _saw_ that coming, dammit. Should never have asked for your help. Should have put an end to this while there was still time. Now you're running off with some ... with some ..."

She didn't seem to find words strong enough to express her disgust, and shook her head with an aggravated huff.

Justin had the rare urge to provide comfort at the sight of her distress, maybe even to hug her. But it didn't felt like his call any more. His decision had dug a rift between them, and he watched her in silence, mourning the friendship he had maybe irremediably destroyed.

"Does he even like you back?" she irritatedly asked, before swiftly adding, "No, don't answer that, I don't think I want to know what exactly happened between you."

 _Quite a lot_ , Justin refrained to say, and felt a pang of heat down in his belly at the sudden recollection: the sharp teeth on his neck, the warm hands all over him, the heavy glide of Giriko's cock on his tongue ...

With great effort, he willed the memories down. "He's not bad as you think," he told Nygus. _He makes me feel alive_ _,_ he didn't add. _He makes me want to grow_.

She considered him with an almost pitying look. "You're just a horny teenager, aren't you," she said quietly.

It wasn't entirely false, even if it was missing the point entirely, and Justin shrugged awkwardly. He badly wanted her to understand what he saw in Giriko, that there was so much more to him than an foul-tempered brute; but he was clear-sighted enough to know she would never be convinced. They had shared so much in the last years - it was a shame that it had to boil down to this.

"Nygus," he said soothingly. "I know what you're thinking, but I will be OK, I swear."

She sighed, and extended a hand as if to touch his face, her fingers ghosting over his cheek.

"He _will_ hurt you," she said, a bitter, almost solemn note in her voice, and let her arm fall back.

"I'll be fine."

She shot him one last, lingering look, then turned on her heels and walked away. "You're going to regret this," she called over her shoulder.

"I don't think I will," Justin answered as the distance between them grew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait, guys! Had a bit of a writer's block, even if all is mapped out.  
> But if you want I've written some ridiculous, fluffy porn, go check it out! Or come visit me on tumblr (randomishnickname.tumblr.com) for headcanons, WIP ideas or simply ramble at me.  
> Comments delight me to no end <3


	19. Healing

There was a creaking, yawning sound like the wail of a wounded animal. The tree vacillated, and for a moment it seemed as if the forest was holding its breath in anticipation; but then it fell in a deafening noise of splintering branches, and hit the ground with a loud thump. The fresh spring air filled with sawdust and the resinous scent of pine needles.

Giriko wiped sweat from his brow, and glanced up, checking the sun's position. He could spot its broad grin, looming deep over the treetops. He must have been working for a few hours now - his back and arms were starting to ache from the weight of the machine he wielded. Maybe he could finally get rid of that nuisance.

"Oi, Anton!" he loudly called, trying to spot his coworker's frame between the trees. There was a distant shout of acknowledgment, then Anton appeared, scratching his shaggy beard.

"It's getting late, man," Giriko told him. "Gather the team and head back, I can clear the rest of the parcel. Started way later than the rest of you guys."

Anton dubiously scanned their surroundings, taking in the amount of trees still bearing white chalk marks, waiting to be felled.

"You'll be at it for hours," he commented, but only halfheartedly; he was never one to miss an opportunity to go home early.

"Nah, 'ts alright. See you around." Giriko adjusted his security goggles and picked up his heavy chainsaw, making his way to the next tree.

Anton didn't push his luck. "Yeah, see you tomorrow," he answered, a chipper undertone to his voice, and darted off in the camp's direction without further ado.

Giriko patiently waited until his footsteps disappeared in the distance, and only the chatter of birds remained. Then he threw the chainsaw aside with a relieved sigh, and popped his joints. Fucking finally.

He had kept his weapon blood a secret since the first time it ran through his veins, but it had never stopped being a chore. And now that Arachne's security didn't rely on his discretion anymore, it was even more frustrating. Every shitty Demon Weapon got to flaunt their skills! But _he_ had to use a _machine,_ as if he wasn't endowed with blades so neat they'd make fucking angels weep. Just in case the DWMA was still looking for him. It ground his gears, seriously.

But thankfully he could manage to sneak in a few hours of weapon-time here and there.

A thought, and his legs were clad in razor-sharp chipper teeth. Another, and the chains started running in first gear, the blades rotating like crazy until they blurred to metallic smears. A noise like a swarm of giant hornets drowned out everything else, and Giriko grinned. Showtime.

With one strong kick he tore through a larch, and skated towards the next tree. A leap, a twist of the hip and it fell, cleanly sliced in two.

_Could a mechanical chainsaw do_ this _?_ Giriko thought with glee, and threw a handful of chains like a lasso. A row of trees tipped over in a cacophony of protesting wood, and Giriko slalomed at full speed between the falling trunks, narrowly avoiding getting squashed.

_Could anyone but me do_ this _?_ A series of roundhouse kicks and there went five further trees - a flock of sterns escaped from their crowns, crying in outrage.

For the next twenty minutes Giriko rampaged, leaping and kicking and skating, a trail of scattered, clean logs in his wake. This was fun, real fun. He had always loved fighting, Demon Weapon or not, the feeling of pummeling foreign flesh, the thrill of gaining the upper hand against his opponents. But this - as wood groaned around him and the scent of resin filled his nose, he felt an unparalleled sense of ... purpose. The straightforward work, the strength coursing through his body, the calculated havoc every motion brought forth ... It resonated with something quiet and long unsuspected, deep within.

He sometimes wondered what Arachne would think of this. He doubted that lumberjacks had been her original goal, when she had braved every law of nature to create the first Demon Weapons. But then things had evolved away from her grasp from the start, anyway - so who knew where further evolution would lead? Maybe a time would come when Demon blood wouldn't be synonymous with instruments of warfare anymore, but rather with workaday tools. A Demon drill. A Demon wheelbarrow.

But even if Arachne would have sneered at him for wasting his talent for massacre on mere trees, Giriko wasn't about to complain. It was deeply pleasing work, invigorating and relaxing at once. The only thing he wished for were more occasions to use his own powers instead of that ridiculous machine.

It made the longing more bearable, for sure.

He came to a halt, panting. His shirt was soaked through and clung to his back in an unpleasant way; but surrounding him laid the entirety of the chalk-marked trees, and he stood tall amidst the newly-formed clearing, fists on his hips, like a victor among the corpses of a fallen army. He nodded, satisfied.

He hopped over a trunk to get to the discarded chainsaw, then began to hike up the trail that led back to the camp and his pick-up. He doubted anyone would overhear him if he skated back, but he'd have to explain the deep furrows in the dirt of the track tomorrow. Safer to walk, and the weather was fine enough.

He strode along, his gait confident - his ankle had finally lost his stiffness. It had taken a lot of Nygus' health exercises to get to this point, but he had pushed through it, and between the painful stretching and the muscle mass he had rebuilt through his physically demanding job, he felt as fit as he ever had in this body.

He was slowly coming to terms with the idea that he'd only leave this flesh suit to be greeted soon after by pitchforks and eternal fire, and so he begrudgingly tried to make the best of it, properly claim it as his own. He had always treated his bodies like cheap motel rooms, random rentals he could trash and misuse; now that he was stuck here, he may as well start hanging up curtains.

Mostly that meant he ate better, drank less, and slept a hella lot more.

Only after one month of freedom, a month spent startling at shadows and waking up drenched in sweat, chased from location to location by the phantom breath of the DWMA on his neck, had he managed to convince himself that the village he was staying at was as safe a place as any - and since then it seemed all he was doing was sleeping. The paranoia of the beginning had given way to bone-deep exhaustion. It was almost worrying, how much time he spent in bed, his sleep deep and dreamless, as if recovering from a long illness.

But all in all it was a decent life he had built for himself, here in southern Poland. He kept some distance from the villagers - no way he was starting to fake friendliness again - and they asked very few noisy questions, even if behind his back the gossip was certainly running wild. He rented a decrepit house on the outskirts of the village, an assemblage of leaky faucets and cranky doors, and spent some of his free time patching it up to stop it from falling apart, with no noticeable progress. A shaggy tomcat had taken residence underneath the porch, less cute than Blair but as interested in Giriko's food - the cat got food scraps and scratches when Giriko felt like it.

It was a bit quiet, a bit lonely a life, but that might be just what he needed. And - and this was the crucial point - Giriko had chosen it.

And if he sometimes smiled at jokes before remembering that the one person he wanted to share them with wasn't there. And if sometimes the desire to run his hand through short blond hair was so strong that it burned. Well, he had chosen that too, right? This was all behind him now.

Still, it was difficult to let go.

He finally reached the camp, a few tin huts storing tools, food and tired lumberjacks during their break. As expected, his rusty pick-up was the last car waiting on the gravel of the parking lot. The sun was setting - he hoped the grocery store would still be open. He tossed his chainsaw and his goggles in the back of the pick-up, then made to climb behind the wheel, idly thinking about what he'd cook himself for dinner.

There was a resounding honk.

Giriko froze mid-motion, instinctively on high alert. Someone near camp this late in the day? Why? Who?! This time he'd fight, fight to the death, they'd never take him alive again -

But no, he had nothing to fear, he firmly reminded himself, and willed down the paranoia. His cover was good, as long as he didn't blew it through suspicious behavior. He turned around, putting on an amiable expression. Nothing to see here. Just a lumberjack on his way home. Not a renowned criminal on the run, nope sir.

Down the gravel track that led to the main road, stood a huge flatbed truck carrying logs. Giriko squinted into the horizontal rays of the afternoon sun in an attempt to discern details. And then he saw.

The truck's cab was painted a shiny black ... And adorned with white crosses.

There was a painful lurch in Giriko's chest, an aborted ache as his heart missed a beat.

He struggled for a breath, forced air into his lungs. Took a few cautious step forwards, gravel crunching beneath his feet, eyes riveted to the open driver window.

To the lean forearm resting on its ledge.

Giriko felt something bubble up in his chest, summer day-bright, but forbade it to rise, not yet, not until he was sure. He walked closer still. Craned his neck, shielding his eyes.

And then Justin was smiling down at him. He was leaning on the window ledge, expression serene and pleased, and yes, blond hair, handsome face, black t-shirt, it _was_ Justin alright, there was no denying it. Improbably, incredibly, he was here.

Giriko let the bliss fill him up until he was giddy with it. Justin. Here. _Justin_.

They stared at each other for what felt like a minute, the bright light in Giriko's chest shining fierce like a miniature star. Then he managed to clear his throat, said: "That's one big-ass truck."

Justin's eyes crinkled with laughter. "Observant as ever, I see."

The chainsaw hadn't realized how much he had missed that smooth voice, and choked on an inhale. It almost felt like too much gifts at once, too much of Justin at once, radiating his familiar presence like a brasier. It had been way too long. Giriko ran a hand through his hair, shakily exhaled.

"You look better," Justin noted, giving the chainsaw an appreciative glance.

"And you look different," Giriko countered.

It was true. His hair was longish, like he had skipped out on a few haircuts, and his fair skin had taken the golden, sun-kissed tan of someone newly spending time outdoors. But more telling were his eyes, his stance, the calm resolve he exuded. Justin had done his fair share of growing up since they last saw each other, Giriko guessed. That man there knew what he was doing, and why.

Unlike Giriko. Time to remedy to that.

"So what brings you to my neck of the woods?" he asked, casually folding his hands behind his neck. He thought he had a good inkling of the answer, but his heart still sped up, his body tensing as if readying himself for a jump from a great height.

Justin huffed a laughter, not fooled by the chainsaw's nonchalance, and propped his cheek on his fist.

"Oh, you know," he began with an easy grin. "Since I parted ways with the DWMA," - Giriko let out a harsh breath of relief - "I've been on a bit of a road trip. Seeing sights, doing odd jobs here and there, a bit of freelance kishin hunt ... Then I had a job nearby," - he gestured in the direction of the logs piled on the truck's platform - "So I thought I'd come check if you were not too bored in your backwater village." He offered Giriko a lopsided smile, eyes glinting.

It was overwhelming, being granted something Giriko had not allowed himself to wish for. This was - this was so much better than anything he could have imagined. So much more than he deserved, frankly, but then he'd never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Adults made their own decisions, however reckless and stupid: no point in questioning whatever weird thought process had brought Justin here. Selfishness had its perks.

"Interesting career choices, priest boy," the chainsaw said, awe bleeding into his voice.

Justin laughed, that clear, joyous laugh of his, and peace washed over Giriko, turning his bones liquid and soft beneath the strain of a good day's work. It was all falling into place somehow, the world suddenly making a hella lot more sense. Nevermind he had never considered this outcome as a possibility: this, _this_ was what was meant to be.

He took the final steps towards the truck cab, unhurried, began climbing the steps, bringing himself up to a height with the blond. He propped his elbows on the window ledge, skin to skin with Justin's warm forearm. Calmly gazed into widened blue eyes.

"So, uhm, yes," Justin stuttered, looking away and forward. A blush spread on his face, his ears a violent red. "I - I could make this job a regular thing if you like... Drop by every week or so ..."

Giriko could feel the tendons in his forearm twitching against his, could smell his fresh, heady scent. There were some paler strand in his hair now, sun-bleached to whitish gold.

Justin went on fumbling an unnecessary explanation, firmly staring ahead. "I mean, if you don't mind ... seeing me around ... Obviously you're in no ways obligated to -"

Giriko reached out to cup Justin's neck in his gloved palm, and the priest abruptly stopped talking. He gave a gentle tug, and Justin followed his lead, compliant, his breath hitching and his eyes huge. Giriko watched him for a moment, the handsome face and the gorgeous, infuriating mind it hid; and then he pressed his mouth onto his.

Justin melted beneath his touch. His lips were soft, soft, _soft_ , and when Giriko gently licked they parted and allowed entrance to the warm, tasty mouth. Their tongues intertwined in a slow, slick dance, and Giriko pulled Justin just a bit closer, kissed him deeper. The blond's breath was speeding up, little irregular puffs, but Giriko was in no hurry and went on kissing Justin as thoroughly as he could, exploring teeth, tongue, palate, committing every ridge and taste to memory. This was a moment he wanted etched into his mind, wanted to imprint onto his faulty, wrecked memory. Wanted to remember forever, every detail of it - the afternoon sun on his neck, the wobbly footing on the cab steps, the way Justin writhed under his gloved hand when Giriko sucked on his tongue. The deep, warm pleasure blooming in his own stomach.

Then there was a needy moan and a cold hand clamped, vice-like, around his biceps; Giriko smiled into the blond's mouth and pulled away, releasing Justin's neck from his hold. Justin's eyes were closed, his breath heavy and his chin tilted upwards, begging for more; but Giriko was in no hurry. He pressed a firm peck to the blond's lips, and jumped down from the steps, landing on the bitumen with a heavy thump.

Justin's eyes were gleaming, a pink hue to his cheeks, as he looked down towards Giriko with puzzled want on his face, like he expected an explanation to this sudden defection.

But why say anything, when everything was clear. Justin was here - no further words were needed. They had all the time in the world to show each other what that meant - this was enough for now.

"See ya next week then," Giriko called.

Justin huffed a laughter at that, and shook his head in disbelief, smoothing down his shirt with one hand. But when he glanced at Giriko his eyes were fond - he seemed to understand.

"It's a date," he smiled.

Giriko shot him a cocky wink, and took a few steps backwards before he turned on his heels towards his pick-up, raising a hand in a salute. The truck behind him roared to life, music started blasting from the speakers, and Justin departed with another rackety honk. Giriko didn't look, didn't need to. He'd be back.

They had time. A lifetime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all. Final chapter of this fic - only the cute epilogue to go. Told ya I'd finish this!  
> This was such a pain to write, honestly, and I'm not very satisfied, but this will have to do. If you want I also wrote a hooker AU one-shot (with a twist) and a very stupid Rival Bands AU. Feeling kinda drained right now...  
> As always comments are so, so welcome, you can't imagine how much they mean to me. Hope you enjoyed this.


	20. Epilogue

Raindrops were tapping on the hull of the truck like hundreds of tiny, tiny footsteps. Through the fogged-up windows the sky was blurred to a monotone steel gray, details vanishing in the half-dark, as if the world had stopped existing outside of the warm, close realm of the truck cab.

Giriko was doodling runes in the condensation veiling the windowpanes. He was contemplating building a new set of miniaturized Golems, that would ward off evil and pests. His first batch had been a hit among the villagers, but he had to rework the spell to make it include cockroaches - he'd forgotten about those nasty little bastards. In the periphery of his vision the kazachok Golem was sagely resting on the dashboard, its roughly-hewn head hanging limp.

He pensively watched a rivulet of moisture ruin one of his glyphs. "Hey Justin, think I could sell these in Loew under the radar?"

The limp weight against his legs didn't stir.

Giriko shot a look over his shoulder - Justin was nestled between the chainsaw and the sleeping bunk's wall, face hidden beneath his arm. He lightly kicked at him. "Oi, you sleepin'?"

"Hmmm?" Justin sleepily mumbled. " 'm not"

Giriko felt fondness swell in his stomach, and with Justin currently blind to the world he could allow it to spread on his face. His entire body felt loose and relaxed with post-coital haze, and he let out a silent sigh of happiness, then ruffled the blond's hair, ignoring the muffled protest. "'Course you're not," he said. "He, if you're always that quiet after riding me we should be doing that more often."

"Hrgm." Justin reached out, and groped about Giriko's face, finally slapping a palm on the chainsaw's mouth in an attempt at silencing him. "Shuddup."

Then he yanked his hand back like a shot when Giriko licked a broad streak across the palm. "Eeeew, gross!" he whined.

Giriko laughed, and rolled over on his back, taking care not to fall off the cot. He folded his arms beneath his neck, and shot the now fully awake blond a lewd grin. "What, don't hear you complaining when it's your cock I'm lickin'."

Justin smoothed his hair, lips curled in distaste, and scowled at the chainsaw. "Urgh. Cut it with the obscenities, please."

Giriko cocked an eyebrow, feigning innocence. "m'I not allowed to say how much I like giving your _cock_ a good, hard suck?"

"Stop saying that!" Justin hissed, gaze growing thunderous.

Giriko's grin widened as he continued, perfectly oblivious. "And how much you _love_ having me going down all hard and thorough on your - _hmpfff_!!"

There suddenly was a pillow in his face, and Justin seemed very intent to smother him with it. Giriko laughed against the obstruction, and blindly yanked at the blond's wrists. Justin didn't yield.

"Affholpff!"

"Sorry, can't hear you," Justin sing-sang, increasing the pillow pressure.

Giriko gave up on the wrists and tackled him by his midriff, trying to wrestle the blond off him. Damn, but he was heavier than he looked; he never got his mind around that. Justin twisted and wriggled like a snake, shoving the chainsaw away, and all at once there was no cot beneath Giriko's back anymore. He slid backwards with a grunt of surprise, and then his spine banged against the floor of the cab with a painful jolt, his ass stranded somewhere midair.

"...Ow," he said towards the ceiling.

"Comfy down there?"

Justin was smiling down at him, eyes bright with mischief. It almost made the bruises bound to appear on Giriko's back worth it.

"Fuck you," he still said, as dignified as was possible hanging upside down.

"Hmm." Justin trailed light fingers across the chainsaw's calf, the sensation cool and tingling, and shot a pointed look at his crotch. "If you can get it up again."

Giriko laughed weakly. "Easy there, tiger." He scrambled up, massaging his sore spine, and nudged the blond aside to make space for him on the narrow mattress. "The warrior needs some rest."

Justin shot him a disbelieving glance. "This is probably the stupidest thing I've ever heard you say, and there are some strong contenders."

Giriko retrieved the crumpled blanket at the end of the bed and draped it over the both of them. "Shut the fuck up," he growled without heat, and captured Justin's mouth into a bruising kiss.

The blond melted against him, all soft skin and strong limbs, his fingers pleasurably pulling at Giriko's hair, and soon it was oven-warm beneath the covers. Giriko felt himself drifting off, sleep sprouting at the peripheries of his mind.

"You should have stayed for the party Saturday," he mumbled against Justin's lips. "Was fun."

Justin hummed noncommittally, and shifted so that his head rested on his favorite spot, tucked beneath Giriko's chin. "What did I miss?"

"A guy brought his fiddle, and he played real good and all. Agnieszka punched Jerzy in the face."

"Had it coming."

"He, yeah. And remember that lil' old lady you found cute?"

"What about her?"

"She drank me under the table."

Justin's shoulders shook with silent laughter beneath Giriko's arms. "You're kidding."

"I'm not, I swear! I blacked out, and next thing I knew it was the next morning and she was putting a cup of tea in my hand, fresh as a flower! Woman's insane!"

"You found your match, it seems. Maybe I should give you two some space," Justin said teasingly. One of his hands wandered down, began caressing the thick scar on Giriko's stomach, where the landmine's shrapnel had pierced his abdomen, over a year ago already. It had faded to pale pink, and for some reason Justin wouldn't keep his hands of it, fondling it even more than the chainsaw's piercings. Giriko resisted the urge to purr at the soft sensation.

"Hm," he said, eyes closed. "She ain't really my type. For some reason I'm more into dumb twinks that love kissing some jerk deity's ass."

Though with nice-smelling hair tickling his nose and firm legs tangled with his, he could think of a whole array of reasons, not that he'd ever acknowledge that out loud.

Justin was silent for a moment, then sighed. "Haven't done any ass-kissing in a while, though."

It sounded almost mournful, and Giriko felt a sour pout rise on his face.

"If you want to go play doll with the Shinigami and his suckers then no one's stopping you," he grumped.

Justin lightly bit down on his neck in silent reprimand. "They're not _suckers_ ," he chided. "But no, I don't want to." He pressed a quick peck on Giriko's temple, and when he next spoke his voice was tender. "I'm right where I want to be."

And here was that annoying, fluttering sensation in Giriko's belly again, painfully tight and overwhelmingly soft. He cleared his throat, tried to think of a joke or an insult, but came up blank. He settled on murmuring "Damn right" into Justin's hair, and squeezing him tight.

Twenty-eight lives he had led. Twenty-eight times he had waited for the good part to begin, waited for Arachne and revenge in the certitude that he'd find something worthwhile amidst blood and cold corpses. Waited all this time, and where did it lead? A mind in shambles, a past of ruins and faded shadows.

The warm breath on his neck slowed down, and Justin's hand twitched against his ribcage as he fell asleep.

Giriko softly exhaled.

His last shot, and he'd finally gotten it right.

 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we are. One and a half year later, I'm finally done with this baby.  
> Thanks to all the readers who followed me on this journey. Thanks especially to anyone who has commented along the way, your words and enthusiasm have been what has kept me going, this was so important to me!  
> I'm almost done with a depiction of the "date" reunion smut, will be uploaded shortly, so check out my works ;) I'm randomishnickname on tumblr, so if you want to chat or check out my collection of Girijasu artworks you're more than welcome to drop by!  
> I've got tons if WIPs planned, mostly AUs, so this will not be the last of me *vengefully shakes fist*  
> Hope you enjoyed the ride <3


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